Betwixt the Stars
by MrsVonTrapp
Summary: In this modern AU, a present day Anne begins to experience very realistic dreams of incidences in another life nearly a century and a half before. Is it her imagination or a remembered reality? Is she tied to the past life of her ancestor and namesake Anne Shirley? Does love carry on through the ages? Content Warning: past lives, death/rebirth, souls, spirituality.
1. We are but orphaned spirits

_Author's Note:_

 _As the kind and lovely readers who are following me on 'The Land of Heart's Desire' will appreciate, as I attempt to finish another chapter in that story I have longed for the day when I might post something that was not ten thousand words and counting… This came as an exercise inspired by all the wonderful one shots and vignettes here, and already perhaps wants to be more. I can see it dovetailing into a modern AU that I tinkered with the beginning of a few months ago, though the hook of this has now certainly changed. I foresee how this could be both a modern AU and simultaneously closer to canon, though that predisposes your interest in and patience for what is essentially a 'past lives' premise._

 _Cue: extravagant eye rolls and Rachel Lynde-strength tutting._

 _Thus whatever this piece becomes, if anything at all, it already owes a heavy debt to the myriad past lives literature out there, particularly in the YA market and especially Ann Brashares' 'My Name is Memory'. Additionally there is David Mitchell's 'Cloud Atlas' and Kate Atkinson's 'Life After Life' and a few films too; the Kenneth Branagh directed and not-as-widely-known-as-it-should-be film 'Dead Again'; the sumptuous 'Somewhere in Time' and the book on which it is based, 'Bid Time Return'; and even (don't laugh) young Robert Downey Jr in 'Chances Are' (trust me, it's great fun!) There are innumerable others, of course, though they are my favourites. All of the above have swirled in my head as much as my start points in Anne and Gilbert (and Anne and Gilbert!) and Lucy Maud Montgomery's wonderful world and characters._

 _And now I have written a note nearly as long as the chapter itself!_

 _I am very interested in your responses. I don't mind being howled down and told to stop ridiculous diversions. I love this community and I am both awed and nurtured by you all every day._

* * *

 _ **BETWIXT THE STARS**_

* * *

 _ **Chapter One**_

' _ **We are but orphaned spirits'**_

* * *

In another time, she fancied to stare at the naked flame of a candle until it burnt itself down to a puddle of molten wax. She scratched out letters by it sitting at an upright desk made of rough hewn wood that still carried the faint forest-scent of its source. She read by it till the darkness shrouded the little east gable room and her grey eyes diverted to the darting shadows on the wall as they entertained in mesmeric dance. She prayed by it, pale hands clasped reverently, mouthing her unchanging incantation for nut-brown hair, and perhaps a few less freckles.

Who even owned candles now, much less used them?

The images would come in her dreams; sometimes so fleeting as to be insubstantial; sometimes dark and potent, gripping her as if by the throat; other times like a melody to lull her. She would awake in the seconds before her heart restarted, in the space between breaths, and she would truly believe herself dead; that she wasn't dreaming at all, but had been flung back through time, catapulted through the centuries. She would leap from the bed and pace, and she could almost feel the starched swish of a long nightdress with fluted sleeves, and her cascading hair held in a thick braid resting over her shoulder, and the creaking floorboards resisting her weight, and the kiss of the branches of a tree, blossoms snow white, against her window when it swayed in the wind. And then she would catch herself, and try to laugh. It was a dream. It was a nonsense.

It was a madness.

It was easier during the day. There was comfort in the cacophony; of a ping on her phone; of her computer screen glowing like a malevolent life force; of the rumble of the car engine before it settled into a satisfied purr; of the orchestral affront of the neverending news cycle. There was clatter and chatter and heedlessly hurtling headlong. There was no opportunity to observe; no moments to measure; no surrendering to the silence.

Occasionally there would be a break; a respite, and she could resume her regular self.

Till an unexpected echo would reverberate… a poem she shouldn't have recognised; a place she shouldn't have heard of; a thing she shouldn't have known.

 _Who_ or _what_ was a _Euclid_ anyway?

She wrote everything down, in fevered stream-of-consciousness freefall; every snatched snippet was offered not as a remembered recounting but as a reassuringly reimagined folly. She could pretend they were something she had fashioned, from her own creative pen; she was no slouch in that department on her own merit, but she battled to make anything entirely her own feel as vivid and true as things she didn't want to quite believe she had already somehow experienced…

… a falling from up high…

… holding a young girl coughing up phlegm…

… a small boat sinking…

And always, always there, just on her periphery, was a boy. Reluctant anger pressed in on her when she thought of him; tall, dark haired, teasing. She could never see his face and felt she shouldn't try to; there was a barrier there, a deliberate denial of him. Every time he turned to her there was the sense she turned away.

So in her free time, when she should be researching college courses, she was instead reading up on stress… anxiety… _psychosis._

The summer she was seventeen her mother had looked one day upon her pale, pinched face and decided it was time for them to consider something drastic. They would take a holiday, before her final year of school. It would be an adventure, and hopefully a tonic. She came home resolutely armed with brochures spanning the length and breadth of Canada itself.

"I was hoping for something along the lines of Hawaii, Mom…" Anne looked about her in what tried to be bemusement but sounded like despair.

"Who needs Hawaii when you have… _PEI_?" her mother plucked a stray brochure from the stack fanned out on the floor, waggling it in the air enticingly.

"Mom, I am all for irony, but going to Prince Edward Island for the summer is akin to people who still go to Vegas to elope."

"It looks _very_ picturesque…"

Anne's expression was dubious enough for her mother to take refuge in the delights of the Rockies instead.

"We could go hiking…" her mother suggested. "We could try _glamping_." There was a pause, and her attractive face fell in shadow. "Though _that_ would rather have offended your dad; he was such a purist. If you were going to try camping it had to be proper camping… you had to feel the dirt beneath your feet…"

"… and the insects swarming…" Anne completed the memory, quietly.

"All his family were from the Island, going way, way back…" her mother mused, leadingly. "He _did_ love his summers there…"

"When he was about _twelve_ and he wanted to be _Tom Sawyer_ , Mom."

"When did you become _quite_ so tired and jaded with life, now, Anne Alexandra Ford?"

Anne bit her lip. _Which particular life, there, Mom, are you referring to?_

Anne reached out a tentative finger and flicked open the discarded brochure… Beaches … meadows … cattle … fishing … food… Red dirt roads and blazing sunsets. A lighthouse. Quaint villages suggesting bygone times. A quieter, steadier pace. She almost felt her pulse slowing at the thought of it.

"We could do a little tour around… some of the coastal towns, some inland, Charlottetown for shopping…?" her mother's voice had turned rhythmic in its cadence, in its attempt to cajole.

"Yes, I am _very_ tired of all the shops here in Toronto."

Even Anne joined her mother's laughter on that point.

"OK, Mom! I am a bear at the stake. I can't hold my position. You win!"

"I do so worry about your metaphors."

"At least you don't have to worry about my spelling anymore."

"How I long for those days!" her mother's fond look lingered on the features she so loved, a definite throwback to her husband's side… auburn hair, pale skin, otherworldly eyes. "It might be our last time together, my lovely girl. You could be headed anywhere for college, you know."

"Or I could be headed to that little university just down the road."

"To undertake a Bachelor of Arts majoring in smart rejoinders, no doubt." Her mother's smile grew wide, and she commandeered a very specific brochure in victory. "I'm off to make some bookings!"

Anne tried not to fall asleep that night till she was sure she was too tired to dream. Over several weeks she willed herself to think of surf and sun and seaside shenanigans. She didn't want to contemplate quiet brooks, or gentle hills, or orchard groves, or woods, shadowed and haunted, but the images assailed her anyway… As did the newly visceral scene that wanted to replay itself… of the crunch underfoot of laced boots traversing a long country lane… a basket filled to the brim with wildflowers… the sun filtering through the dense canopy above… and of a tall, indistinct figure waiting by a gate, head bent to engage in earnest conversation that hovered on the edge of laughter.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

I lovingly take my story title from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnet 25:

' _A Heavy Heart, Beloved, Have I Borne'_

My chapter title is also from Barrett Browning's _'Chorus of Eden Spirits'_


	2. Time's wheel runs back

_Thank you to everyone who has been so kind about this new endeavour._

 _I can assure you my other endeavour is not forgotten!_

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

' _ **Time's wheel runs back'**_

* * *

When the azure sea met the undaunted blue of the sky and the earth looked as a mirror of itself, he finally took a deep breath and realised, at last, he was heading home.

He stood on the very top deck of the car ferry, where the gusts blasted his dark curls and he needed both strong hands to grip the railing, lest he be pitched forward into the foaming water. No matter what his method of arrival, there was something about traversing sea to reach an island that seemed to call to him; of a passageway between two worlds; of the moments suspended as one entity is left behind for the other. He could feel the yoke of study and expectation – of the heavy weight of the past year, and the anticipation of new burdens to come – fall from his broad shoulders as their craft churned through the water and its cargo of holidaymakers would soon enough be deposited on the other side, swept into the eager embrace of shopkeepers, restauranteurs and the staff managing assorted seasonal attractions.

Few ventured outside to enjoy the crossing as he did, but a deck below two women made the brave attempt, hauling themselves along the railing as they swayed drunkenly, their giggles and shouts caught on the air currents and whisked upwards and away, as if balloons accidentally relinquished by a surprised child. The tall brunette - old enough to be the mother of her companion but young enough to still enjoy the foolhardiness of their ill advised escapade – pointed out something in the distance, smile widely delighting in everything around her. The younger woman turned too quickly in her eagerness, and that was her fatal error – the sunhat she clutched with one hand clamped upon her head caught a whiff of the wind and sailed off and up, an unlikely hovercraft, dipping against the horizon before plummeting with some verve towards the waiting depths.

The loss of the hat had released a remarkable flame of red hair, which whipped around in all directions, blinding its owner and rendering her slight form immobile as she clutched at it helplessly, and then the two women were clawing their way back to the security, comfort – and windless protection – of the indoor seats.

He turned back with a smile to the other view, of the approaching landform, his pulse quickening at the thought of the coastal road leading to the jewelled harbour; of climbing up and away from the water to the town he loved and didn't realise how much he had missed. Last year they had both been in a fog of grief and denial, a mist swirling around them like those that crept stealthily to shroud the boats bobbing in the harbour in the early mornings. He had worked and his father had worked and they tried not to contemplate their sorrow, side by side and yet unable to breach the distance between them; the yawning gulf of unspoken anguish. But another year had passed. It was two years now. Perhaps, instead of burying themselves to ward off the pain they had to embrace it and try to move on; they had to open the wound and examine it, let the air get to it, lest it fester and rot.

He would try everything to haul his father back into life. He would try to resuscitate them both. Perhaps even fishing, perish the thought.

The ferry cosied up to the wharf, and docked, and he watched the passengers, so lethargically rested on the way over, now caught in their impatient frenzy to disembark. His sunglasses shaded his hazel eyes but the glare was still bright enough for him to put his arm up to block it as he watched them with bemusement. It was the same every single time. _Tourists._ He gave an exasperated eyeroll.

He took the stairs quickly now, knowing he had better get down to his waiting car.

As the steady stream of vehicles rolled their way off the ferry and stalled in the traffic snarl he noted the assorted foot passengers and the odd cyclist as they made their laborious trek up towards the Visitor Information Centre and the conveniently located gift shop. He was almost parallel with a particular brunette and titian pair as they strode purposefully, their overstuffed suitcases (and the brunette's heels) making their progress comically torturous. The brunette was brandishing a map which she unfolded with one hand as she walked, and of course it was not to be their day; the greedy breeze caught it to add to the hat as its additional prize. The redhead lunged, laughing, and his own chuckle escaped him without hardly knowing. She snaffled it nimbly, but the action had caused her to leap close to the curb, and she turned a half circle in triumph, taking in his lingering grin as he briefly met her eyes through the window.

A flash of grey-green lit by the sun; and then the break in the traffic, and he was driving away.

* * *

They had meandered along the beautiful coastal road from the ferry terminus at Wood Island and then to Summerside, a journey of two hours that took closer to three, accounting for photo stops and the occasional slow moving tractor. That evening found them in the surreal splendour of a well appointed harbourside motel, surveying the magical sweep of the harbour thrumming with people, music, life. They sat reclined on generous cushioned chairs on the balcony, looking out to the ocean, the breeze still at a resolute strength but their pinned hair was a match for any further attempts to dishevel them.

"I could get used to this," Anne remarked with a grin, contemplating her third fruity mocktail. "Excellent idea, Mom. Who needs Waikiki?"

"Who indeed?" her mother grinned in return, noting how the rosy blush of contentment made those grey eyes sparkle in a way she had not observed in quite a while. "I do believe you look as rested as I have ever seen you, Miss Ford."

The light giggle in reply darkened to indulgence. "Isn't that what I'm meant to say to _you_ , Mom? That you've looked stressed out and are finally beginning to chill?"

"Perhaps…"

"Only you never look stressed out… why _is_ that?"

"Only one stress magnet per household. That mantle is yours, my lovely."

"You mean… the mantle handed down from Dad?" Anne ventured.

Her mother took a steadying sip of wine, closing down the enquiry with an arch of her brow. "Drink your mocktail, Miss Ford."

Anne surveyed the disconcertingly beautiful woman who happened to be her mother over the rim of her glass. A waiter came to assure them that their light meal would be ready shortly and to thank them for their patience in this first busy week of summer, and could he offer another additional drink each with the compliments of the Management? That sort of thing happened to her mother all the time. Men who hadn't opened a door in their lives rushed to oblige; strangers offered their immediate assistance when their car wouldn't start; grocers and butchers were always including a little something extra. Luckily it bemused Anne more than it chagrined her, mostly due to the fact that she was held in the same thrall of slavish adoration herself; a feeling that she most certainly had not had anyone experience with regard to her own person.

"Did Dad bring you here?" Anne asked after a moment.

Her mother's smile was wistful. "Not to Summerside. We flew into Charlottetown a couple of times, and had a long weekend there, as I recall, before you were born. Any occasion that did bring us to the Island meant going to Glen St Mary, which is a lovely place, quieter and quainter than here, with a frightening array of aunts and uncles and second cousins once removed… so much so that you practically fall over them. I think he found that all a little daunting as he got older. And he loved Toronto; that was the true home for him. That's where all the Fords were born… where he was born and you were born and where we met… the Glen and PEI were only places he visited in summer." Her smile grew knowing. "And then he discovered the Seychelles instead, and so from then on he much preferred his islands to be a little more exotic."

Anne's smile was warm. "I can't blame him for that." She grew contemplative, and fiddled with the straw of her mocktail, certain that she wouldn't be able to manage their meal when it _did_ come.

"Would you have stayed in Toronto, Mom? If not for Dad? You weren't from there, yourself. You gave up so much… your career and fame and fortune…. Well, I guess _Dad_ brought the fortune…"

" _Cheeky_."

"Do you think you were meant to meet him? To be with him?" She paused, balanced on the precipice. "Despite everything?"

Perhaps the liquid sugar she had consumed had unduly loosened her tongue, which she wondered now if she should swallow so as to not wholeheartedly blunder about and ruin this perfect day. Her mother sat down her glass with a slow, elegant hand. Her movements still betrayed the rhythm of her dance and drama training; a kinesthetic knowledge she carried with her.

"Are you going to quote your Shakespeare at me, love?" those blue-grey eyes regarded her carefully. "What is the line? Of stars and destiny…?"

" _It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves."_ Anne murmured, cheeks warming. "But that's wrong – the real _Julius Caesar_ quote is not quite as pretty. I sort of… I've sort of been thinking more about _The Tempest_ , which we did in Literature… um… _"what's past is prologue."_ **

" _What's past is prologue…"_ her mother echoed. "That's rather a heavy thought, there."

"I guess so."

"Darling… the past doesn't always have to dictate your future, you know."

Anne blinked back sudden tears. "I know…"

"Your Dad…" she paused to contemplate the words, "your Dad was… well… I knew what your Dad _was_... It didn't change things for me. Maybe it should have… But I made a conscious choice, darling. To be with him… to stay. To say _yes._ I don't know if it was _destiny_ that I meet him – though he _was_ the writer of the play I was in, as you well know, so the odds were certainly in our favour…"

Anne sparked a little at this. "The _Life Book_ he adapted? I always thought that maybe he considered you were his Margaret, and not just that you played her."

"He had an awful lot of _Lost Margarets,_ sweetheart," her mother's wry tone masked the pain held within it. She frowned and looked back out to the ocean. "It was still my free will that wanted him… even knowing the tortured genius he was… and before you ask… I would do it all again, _despite everything_. Because we had _you._ If I had a destiny at all it was to be your mother."

She had claimed such things before, but the sentiment still made her want to cry. Anne unfurled herself and crossed over to lay her lithe limbs alongside her mother's, half in her lap, as of old, her head on her shoulder. She felt the kiss in her hair, and swallowed away the ache inside her, as she turned herself to view the harbour, with its beauty and its promise.

Anne wished that she and her mother could have come to this Island with her father as tour guide, and not as a ghost. Her head was already crowded enough with them already.

* * *

He sat companionably with his father on the wide, generous veranda, as the day faded before them, and the shadows stretched themselves out towards the twinkling lights of Four Winds harbour below.

"So good to have you here, son," his father nodded.

"Good to be here, Dad," he smiled gently, and took a sip of his beer.

"Can't believe those results of yours. First in your year in three subjects. Science faculty honours program. She… I … we're all very proud of you. You certainly don't get any of it from me."

He gave a grin at that. "Thanks, Dad… and yeah, I think the Blythe family ambition completely bypassed you," he joked. "You're wasting your time with this local law practice of yours that only won that huge compensation claim for the Reeces back a month ago."

His father chuckled ruefully. "All right. I'll take that. But really, son. Are you sure? Med School and then specialisations after that? You'll work yourself into the ground."

"Well, I need to get _in_ to Med School first. Redmond might be select and a bit exclusive but it's still a small pond compared to a lot of the others. And I won't know anything till after the entrance exam. If I get in anywhere I'll take it, of course; if not I'll do an honours year and then… well, we'll see." His brow darkened.

In truth he didn't _want_ to see. Thinking of a Plan B seemed an inherent betrayal of his own hopes. But he knew he had to be practical about it.

"When's the exam?"

"The MCAT's ** in August. Five weeks." He sighed at the thought.

"Have a holiday too, son. You deserve it. We didn't… we didn't exactly have a holiday last year…"

His father's voice wavered dangerously. He waited for it to slide off over the edge, but it teetered and held. He swallowed in relief as his father took a restorative gulp of his own beer.

"Well, a holiday would be fine with me," he offered. "Sun… surf… fishing."

A throaty laugh burst out. "You don't go dangling that fishing idea at me. I know I'll never lure you!"

"Seriously, Dad, the terrible metaphors! You need a holiday more than I do."

"Maybe." Their laughter quietly ebbed away. "So… all work and no play, son… What happened to that pretty companion of yours back at Easter?"

" _Dad…_ " he groaned in protest.

"You've got to give me _something_ to go on. The family will be at me to know the latest. And I myself am living vicariously through you at any rate."

"Dad, there's about three divorcees, one widow and a dozen ladies of indeterminate age just down the road who can't _wait_ for you to wink encouragingly at them."

"That's called misdirection, son."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, well, Gillian and me… maybe Destiny wasn't on our side."

"You don't believe in Destiny."

"No…" another sigh, and then a thoughtful pause. "Was it Destiny for you and Ma?"

There was a quiet snort. "If by _Destiny_ you mean Michael Meredith paying me to take his sister to the school dance so that he could concentrate his efforts on one of the Crawford girls then yes, by all means, it was practically fated."

The answering smile was smug. "Your _Taming of the Shrew_ story hasn't held water for years, Dad. Everyone knows you threw the money back in Uncle Mike's face."

"I actually pocketed the money proudly, I'll have you know."

"Or maybe…. you bought Ma a corsage with it instead." His darting hazel eyed look was sly.

His father viewed him with sharp surprise. "He told you that?"

" _Ma_ did."

"Wishful thinking…" the reply was waved off with a soft, pleased smile.

"Face it, Dad. You were in love with her even when you were both fifteen."

There was a pause, trembling on the air, and he thought he'd gone too far, before the reply.

"Just you wait, Mr Smart Alec pre med supremo. Just you wait till the thunderbolt hits you, and see how you fare."

"Not me," he stretched languorously, and that famous family grin flashed. "I'm a man on a mission."

The answering guffaw was long and loud.

"Exactly what _I_ said, son."

"What you said _when?_ "

A sheepish, winning smile met his. "Before I bought your mother that corsage."

* * *

That evening the harbour lights swirled and dimmed before her closed eyes, and she felt the breeze through her open window stir her hair and drift across her face. She had worried that the conversation about her father might have precipitated dark thoughts within a dark dream, but the images were bathed in warmth and tenderness …

... of a fair hand, writing with the considered script of an older, thoughtful mind, musing on loving, longing words written with the perfect pen …

... of lamplight now; a muted glow, and the view to the harbour out the window of a tower room…

 _... "Thick stars are low over it all. It is 'a dreaming town'. Isn't that a lovely phrase….?"_ *** The question -and the letter- is directed to _him._ Why would that be, when she doesn't even _like_ him?

His name almost glides towards her. But then it's snatched by a zephyr; floating away on a flurry of air.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

My chapter title is from Robert Browning's _Rabbi ben Ezra;_

" _Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure"_ although the poem is probably known best for its opening lines – _"Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be…"_

*Medical College Admission Test. According to my information all US medical schools and many Canadian ones require an MCAT score.

I appreciate your indulgence in having the fictional and beloved Redmond (University) – and by extension Kingsport - sit alongside otherwise real modern references. I just couldn't bring myself to have a Blythe study anywhere else.

**William Shakespeare _The Tempest_ (Act 2 Sc 1)

*** _Anne of Windy Poplars (Willows)_ 'The First Year' (Ch. 8)


	3. And sang a kindred soul out to his face

_Thank you to all who have kept faith and interest in this fledgling fic - even when it looked like I had gone to sleep on it! - and for your lovely comments so far._

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

' _ **And sang a kindred soul out to his face'**_

* * *

The familiar feeling on the edge of déjà vu settled itself upon her like a comfortable but slightly too-heavy cloak about her shoulders, the moment her wondering grey eyes took in the harbour, winking cheekily in the sunlight, and swept along to survey sand dunes and a red sandstone cliff, rising in delighted hulking magnificence to greet them.

"Are you sure I never came here to Glen St Mary, mom? Even as a baby?" she almost pleaded, seeking any explanation as solace, as their hire car momentarily stuttered at the sizable hill confronting them leading up to the town.

Her mother frowned in concentration, stopping to pause for a batch of boys, already golden baked by the sun, sauntering across the road, fishing poles brandished idly.

"Let's see…" she murmured. "The last time I came, it was probably the last big multi family gathering… the dedication of the lighthouse as a National Trust building. That was…" she paused, contemplating. "Well, your dad and I were married by then… it attracted quite a bit of press, because of the connection to Captain Jim and also the play of the _Life Book,_ which had not long finished its run … but I _was_ pregnant with you at the time. Does that count then, love, to you being _here_ before?"

"I don't think so…" Anne sighed, doubtful memories could be transferred through the umbilical cord in the same way as vital nutrients. She looked about her in awe tinged with a troubled awareness. "It's sleepier than Summerside, here, that's obvious, but I think it has more character. It's really beautiful. Dad used to joke about it as if it was halfway to _Hicksville._ Why didn't he want to come back?"

"The _dedication_ ," her mother groaned dramatically. "His gradual … _alienation_ from the place probably began much before that, but certainly that whole business spelled the end. It wasn't the best received idea around here. The way it was done, anyway. Various townsfolk wanted to fundraise the money for the restoration of the lighthouse, as a community effort, but your dad and your grandad especially were of the mind that they had the money and it would be churlish not to offer it. Unfortunately it was seen as the Fords big-noting themselves yet again. It became less about the lighthouse – and even about the beloved old Captain - and more about what your dad's family had done with his story. _Hijacked_ was a term bandied about, if I remember correctly. I mean, your dad wasn't to blame for how the press covered it… well, the _local_ press at least. The mainland papers loved it, of course."

"What did the local papers say that was so terrible? Saving a crumbling lighthouse seems like a terrific thing to do."

"It _was._ It's just that it wasn't so much _what_ was said but _who_ was saying it… which would have been one of your dad's cousins who was editor."

Anne's expression was appropriately scandalised.

"Dad's _cousin?_ " she bleated.

Her mother gave a light little chuckle. "I can't even remember which _one_ it was now… or how far removed… there are rather a lot of them around here. Your dad wasn't famously close to his cousins and the extended family but that did nothing to help relations, that's for sure. There came to be less and less inducement for him to return… your grandad started letting out the old summer house year round… It was a shame, really. I found all the family, particularly some, to be very nice. And everyone was always lovely to me."

 _Of course they were…_ Anne hid her wry grin. _The well known, beautiful young actress from 'The Life Book' itself in their midst…_

"At any rate, do be careful, love, not to get into any of your entertaining … _discussions…_ with any of the locals," her mother continued warningly. "We wouldn't want to cause a fresh wave of offence the moment we set foot in the place again."

Anne rolled her eyes extravagantly, looking out as they made their way along the main road in a neat little circuit, before turning onto the downward slope leading back to the harbour. "Perhaps the _locals_ might do well to not be so touchy and defensive, then?"

"Perhaps… but _still,_ darling. Be mindful."

"I will," Anne gave a rather haughty sniff in familial solidarity. "As long as they are also mindful of _me._ "

* * *

He had sometimes feared the weighty anchor of home would drown him these past few years; he would dream he was twisted in chains, sinking steadily into the deep, the waters darkening below as the surface sunlight faded. For a time he was content to be adrift; university in Kingsport was a shimmering pool of variety and vibrancy, and he had relished diving in – and making a splash – even as it often felt his breath was trapped in his chest and his lungs burned with the effort to continue on.

And now he was caught again in the margins; between the great, alluring unknown and the tranquil, restorative waters of home. Just at the time he had truly made peace with this place and his own place within it, now perhaps he would have to leave it again – for years. The thought of that had been nothing when away at Redmond but became a dangerous dull ache here. He had only been back a week and already the sleepy town – of _'drowsy noons… And evenings steeped in honied indolence'_ * – had woven its otherworldly spell. The UMAT, however, was a startling reality he could not ignore, though he had tried to rally himself to resume his preparation for it for days; indeed his ' _Ambition'_ in contrast to the bright, beckoning summer sun was very _'pale of cheek'._ **

Honestly, he was almost certain a knowledge of Keats was unnecessary for entry to medical school. He would have to get a hold of himself.

He paced the sprawling house, his steps echoing in the emptiness; it was too big for them even when his mother was alive, but it had been in the family for as long as anyone could remember. He came to a stop and contemplated the distant view down to the sea. Already the heat hung in the air; it would be a scorcher today. The beach and the harbour would be thronging with locals and visitors alike; there would be no respite from the crowds there or anywhere in the town for that matter. And yet to remain indoors on such a day would be a travesty of a different kind.

He frowned at his phone. Gillian had updated her _status._ Well, fine, if that's the way she wanted it. He wished he felt the hurt more deeply. _'Oh folly! What is Love? and where is it?'_ he chuckled darkly to himself.***

With new resolve he thundered back up the stairs, shoved books and notebooks into his backpack, and was downstairs again and out the door without a backward glance.

* * *

The restlessness beat at her like a ceaseless drum. Her mother wanted to regenerate in the cool surrounds of their hotel room overlooking the harbour, particularly after their exhaustive exploring of the town the previous day, but Anne clawed the walls like a caged animal. The ocean views here were gorgeous, too, though she couldn't see a square of sand that wasn't hugged by ever-reddening bodies, and a kaleidoscope of swimmers and boats choked the water.

She would rather not be amongst people today. Or, dare she say it, in proximity of the ocean. She saw that quiet country lane. She saw the shade of the trees. She saw her chance of escape, and perhaps of connection, though she hardly knew, still, what she dared connect _to;_ what _was_ the unseen thing she was reaching out to grasp?

She left a note for her mother. She took her bag and her books and her vague sense of disquiet with her.

* * *

He was uncertain how long he had remained, unmoving, half hidden by the dappled shade at the edge of the grove of maples in the wild clearing that had always been known, within the family at least, as Rainbow Valley. He only became properly aware of time passing when his left leg began to ache in protest, and his dry throat felt tight and scratchy in the heat. He usually felt uncomfortable with inaction, preferring to always be occupied, whether it be in physical or mental pursuits, but the unexpected view before him had been so startlingly surprising he had stopped up short, and there had remained, standing awkwardly, crippled by uncharacteristic indecision. There was never anyone in the valley, at this time, in this weather, in this place. _His_ place.

Until today.

It was too late to alert her to his presence now, lest she discover his surveillance of her and, understandably, run off post haste to alert the local authorities. He hadn't meant to stare; usually he was the _object_ of such fascination, not the purveyor of it. However, he had been mesmerised by the glint of sun escaping through the canopy of leaves and colliding with the burnished copper of her hair; the pale legs only permitted the merest hint of escape from the protection of the shade of the familiar wild oak she leaned against; the slim hands furiously scribbling notes in the margins of the heavy tome she perused; her face obscured by the shade and the angle but he guessed at the frown of concentration and the way her brows drew together, deep in thought.

After a time she huffed and heaved the textbook off her lap, throwing it on the grass next to her with a heavy thud. She stretched luxuriously, gulped down some water from the bottle beside her, and then scrambled around in her backpack, withdrawing a novel. With a small smile and a satisfied sigh, she settled down to reading. He was close enough to just make out a man and woman on the cover, embracing. A romance novel. That made him grin to himself, and then his own dark brows met with consternation. She could be _hours_ yet. He couldn't stay here, like this, any longer.

Withdrawing as stealthily as he could, he managed to back up around ten paces, moving agonisingly slowly, aware that the slightest noise, the snap of a lone twig, may alert her to his impossible-to-explain presence. Then he took a breath, hoisted his own backpack in place, and let out a rather tuneless whistle. He crashed around noisily to his right, in a slight arc, and then moved forward, towards the sun; towards the tree; towards _her._

By the time he reached her, she had hidden the incriminating paperback, rather amusingly; had opened the textbook to a random page on her knee; and was staring at him wide eyed. He had been deliberately fiddling with the strap of his backpack, but then he looked up, saw her, and did his own engineered double take.

"Oh! Sorry! I didn't know anyone was here."

He came to stand a few feet away from her, and she leapt up, brushing down her colourful gypsy-like skirt self consciously, the textbook falling away to the side, her eyes, an unusual shade of grey with lighter flecks, which could be blue or green, staring intently. Her pale face – had it ever seen the sun? – flushed at his words, making the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose stand out dramatically, and her soft pink lips formed a startled _o_ of surprise. She made no move to speak, and he worried for a moment that she perhaps didn't understand English; was possibly a holidaymaker from some far off, sun deprived clime, or perhaps his own appearance was too startling and sudden, frightening her into silence.

"Hello?"

"Hello…"

"Oh, right. Hello. I didn't mean to startle you."

"That's fine… you didn't. That is, you didn't very much."

She offered a small smile, her eyes now in thoughtful appraisal of him. Her gaze was almost studious, as if she was trying to record his features for future reference. _Perhaps for a 'Most Wanted' poster._ After having caught _her_ off guard he now felt ridiculously as if he himself was the one at a disadvantage. He wondered at his own face, flushed from the heat; the casual t shirt and cargo shorts he had thrown on that morning, a little heedlessly. He fervently hoped he didn't have any stray vegetation sticking out of his mad hair.

"You're not local? I'm sure I would have remembered seeing you before."

"No," she agreed, a little archly. "Not local."

He raised an eyebrow at her reticence.

"And _yet,"_ he said a little leadingly, "you are out here, certainly off the beaten track, and laying claim to my tree."

" _Your_ tree?" her smile widened to wary bemusement.

"Absolutely," he smiled smugly. "I have my initials carved on it."

She looked at him incredulously, and then whipped around the back of the sturdy trunk without hesitation.

"This is _you? GDB?"_ she called out.

The curious creature had found it, then. "Indeed it is."

She came back around to face him. "These are _your_ initials?"

"Pretty much."

"Can you prove it?"

He spluttered a laugh at the challenge. "Well, I can't prove it _absolutely_ now, can I? You've just told me the initials, so I could come up with any random names for you."

She frowned at that, caught out.

"But you'll undoubtedly have your wallet and license on you for verification," she remembered quickly, pleased smile forming.

He sighed at that, fiddling with the strap of his backpack again. _Touche,_ he thought to himself, not knowing whether to be impressed or slightly annoyed.

They surveyed one another for a few moments in silent impasse. He was amused by the game but he really was dying for some water, and the three MCAT-inspired medical textbooks he was lugging weren't exactly lightweight. Additionally, _she_ was the interloper, whether she acknowledged it or not, and he'd spent enough time being held up in his inadvertent observation of her already.

And another little pinch, like the prick of a mosquito bite; usually girls were rather keen to make his acquaintance; rather desiring of it, in fact; particularly strange girls he encountered here during the summer. He was intrigued by her insouciance, even as he was growing marginally impatient with it.

 _Right, then._

"Greetings, then, squatter at my tree," he moved forward slightly and held out his hand, strong and tanned and sure, "I'm David."

She hesitated only slightly, and then offered her own hand, small and slim and soft and lily white. As their skin connected and her hand was engulfed in his, there ran a little bolt through him; he looked into her eyes, startled, to find her own had widened, perhaps feeling the same.

"Hello, I'm Anne," she admitted, and her pale cheeks pinkened slightly under his gaze.

"Anne." He smiled. "Welcome to our humble shores."

* * *

He managed to share the shade of the tree with her; the heat was so oppressive now, he felt it was cooking him from the inside. He relinquished the backpack with relief, and they both took some water, standing together in awkward if eager communion.

" _David_ doesn't start with a _G_ , you know," she announced suddenly, head tilted to the side.

"Excuse me?"

"The initials. _GDB_."

"Oh," he smiled, again, a little sheepishly, shoving hands in pockets. "Well, that's because I go by my middle name."

"Why?"

He blinked at her forthrightness. "Believe me, _you'd_ go by your middle name, too."

"Is it that bad?" she gave a little laugh.

The sound unaccountably warmed his cheeks, and he shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance.

"It's just a family name…"

"OK…" she looked at him with a wry smile. " _Gary_?" she questioned.

He laughed loudly, the appreciative sound making her chuckle despite herself.

"Oh, we're playing this, are we? Well, then. Nice try."

"Um… Gavin?" she pressed, undeterred.

His lips smirked and his hazel eyes danced about.

"Sorry, no. You'll never get it."

Her smile was knowing, then, and her grey eyes narrowed at the challenge.

"George."

He shook his head slowly.

She blew out a breath. "Guy? Gus? Greg?"

He shrugged his shoulders sadly, as if heartily disappointed by her ineffectual deductions, his mouth still quirked in amusement, and slowly moved past her to examine the trunk of his tree, his long fingers reverentially tracing over the old carving, the initials worn with time but still distinct. How old had he been when he had done it? Twelve? Thirteen?

He came to face her again, leaning his tall, broad shouldered frame against the trunk, reasserting his claim on it. Her eyes tracked the movement, and she crossed her arms defensively in front of her.

" _Gideon!"_ she threw at him now, with a toss of those bright tresses. " _Giovanni!"_ she became deliberately more outlandish in her choices, something sparking in those grey eyes. " _Garrett!"_

His brows drew together, considering, and he crossed his own arms. "I wouldn't have minded _Garrett,_ actually," he mused, smiling teasingly.

She raised an imperious auburn eyebrow. "Wow. This is sure to be good, then."

He noted the change in her tone, which had been approaching warm but had plummeted in temperature in seconds. Perhaps this wasn't exactly the way to win her over.

He came carefully back to her, hands in pockets again, endearingly abashed. He looked at her very directly.

" _Gerald_ ," he delivered in deadpan fashion.

He held her grey gaze with his hazel one, daring her to react. After a surprised beat she pressed her lips together, trying not to giggle.

"Obviously my parents did it on a dare, or else they thought it would be character building," he offered wryly, and her eyes smiled at his self deprecation.

"I guess _I'd_ go by David as well…" she teased, and then her hand swept back her hair in a little self conscious gesture, just short of coquetry. "We all have our crosses to bear," she muttered dryly, coloring.

He grinned, ducking his head towards her, and his voice was a little low in reply. "You'll find yourself amongst friends here, Anne," he remarked, just short of flirting. "Half my family has red hair."

She bit her lip, pleased, and he wondered why that should make him pleased in return. What was _happening_ today? Was he due to awaken, having dropped from heat stroke, to find he had dreamt the whole thing?

His gaze fell on her abandoned textbook, and he leaned over to peer at the title of the doorstop facing him, though he would have rather seen the title of the one he was not meant to know about.

" _Seven Centuries of Poetry,"_ **** he intoned, nodding impressively. "A bit of light summer reading for you, then."

She rolled her eyes, quirking a chagrined smile. "Yes, indeed. I am going to be a senior this year."

"College?" he asked, surprised. She looked too young.

This caused a very flustered response. "Oh, no! Um, high school. But I'm taking some college subjects."

He nodded, his smile encouraging. "Who's your favourite, then? I'm guessing you're a romantic poets kind of girl."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh yes, of course! I'm female, so it stands to reason that I'm just swooning over Byron and Keats!"

He quirked a knowing eyebrow.

"All right!" she laughed. "Maybe Keats."

"He did have a rather tragi-romantic end," he acknowledged.

"Oh, yes he did! I know! So sad – he was so young!" she was instantly animated, smile sparking, and her sudden enthusiasm was quite charming.

David couldn't stop his self congratulatory little smile. " _That thou, light winged Dryad of the trees…"_ ***** he flicked a glance at her, to catch her in a deep blush. "Probably my favourite line of his, actually."

Anne paused, considering.

" _That I might drink, and leave the world unseen_

 _And with thee fade away into the forest dim." ******_

"Oh, sure, _that's_ cheerful!" he guffawed, to her laughter.

A convivial moment passed. It seemed slightly surreal, this meeting of minds, out here in the valley, trading lines of poetry.

"He could have been a doctor, you know. Keats, that is," David ventured.

"Yes, I know," she surveyed him as if he had just made a very obvious remark about the heat being a little excessive. It rather shut down his reliable conversational gambit. *******

"Are _you_ at college, Mr Don't-Call-Me-Gerald?" she asked.

He muzzled a grin at her mockery. "Just finished. Bachelor of Science at Redmond in Kingsport. Although there is a little pesky something called the UMAT…" he rolled his own eyes, and crouched down to forage in his backpack. "I give you Exhibits A… B… and C…" he heaved each medical tome onto the ground, like heavy rocks tossed in the river.

"Oh, no!" she laughed. "Why would you _do_ that to yourself?"

"I've been asking myself the same question."

"I'd stick with the poetry if I were you. Most science nerds I've met wouldn't know their Byron from their Bunsen burners."

"I don't know if there's a compliment in there or not." His hazel eyes flashed to hers as he straightened, catching her blush again. It made her grey eyes very bright in her otherwise pale face.

There was a slightly embarrassed pause.

"Really, we should sit down before we fall down, Anne-Visitor-To-My-Island," he instructed.

"Is that your medical opinion, then?" she threw at him with a smile, settling herself against the trunk as he had originally found her, leaving him to lounge languidly on the grass, stretching his long legs before him.

* * *

He smiled knowingly, allowing the jibe. Really, _what_ sort of fey creature had he discovered out here? She was certainly unlike most of the other local girls, with her witty rejoinders not an attempt at flirtation so much as a combative enjoyment of words and arguments. And she was hardly like the Redmond girls, either; although she shared their directness and certainly their intelligence she completely lacked their self aware knowledge of their own charms, and the flash of fire engendered by Keats spoke of a love of learning that was such a contrast to the Trojan-like trudging he had encountered in Kingsport, as people in their desperate battle to complete their degrees grew to hate the very things that they had come there to study. Perhaps it was her comparative youth; she couldn't be more than eighteen. Or perhaps it was that he had just felt so old lately.

"What brings you here then, Anne? Glen St Mary is not exactly on the tourist trail."

He thought her look grew pensive. "I think we are here to lay a ghost to rest," she answered cryptically, almost to herself.

His brows drew together. "As in the literal or the figurative kind?"

"Well, literal only if you _believe_ in ghosts."

He chuckled. "True."

"Maybe both, then," she smiled sadly.

"So _you_ believe in ghosts?"

She paused, sighing, darting a glance to him and then back to her hands in her lap. "I… I know that the world… that _my_ world… isn't as straight forward as it once was… there are things to contemplate and figure out… I've felt… I've _felt_ things that make me question everything… I guess _'there are more things in heaven and earth'_ ******** and all that." She trailed off, self conscious.

"Yeah, poor Horatio," he grinned. "I've _met a_ few Horatios in my time. They are quite content in their cluelessness."

"It would be nice if we all could be!"

"But…" he looked at her thoughtfully. " _You_ seem to be someone who wants answers. And you think some of the answers you need are here in the Glen?"

She worried her bottom lip over this.

"It's where everything originates for my family, in a way, so yes…"

"Your _family_?" he asked a little sharply, sitting up. "You have family here?"

"All over this place, apparently."

"I probably know some of them," he grinned. "I can give you the lowdown if you like."

She gave another laughing response. "That's very kind of you, but I have no means of identifying them, apart from a general air of inbred entitlement – "

"Ouch! That's _harsh,_ Visitor Anne," he groaned. "What have Glen residents ever done to your family?"

Her grey eyes grew stormy, and her fair features darkened. "They drove my father away," she announced, her voice lowering.

There was a pause of several beats. "Your _father?_ What do you mean? Who is your father?"

Her lips pursed. "It doesn't matter."

David tried not to scowl. "Hold on, Anne. That's a pretty big accusation to be tossing around when you won't give me any particulars from your end. I can't help you if I don't know what I'm dealing with."

"I don't need any _help._ It doesn't even concern you!"

He blew out a long, frustrated breath. Well, things had certainly taken an unexpected turn, that was for sure.

"Of course it concerns me! I'm _from_ here. You know, one of those _inbred entitled_ types you mentioned."

Her face flamed. "I didn't mean _you…_ "

David drew a hand through his hair. "Well, why not _me_? And if not me specifically, you only have to throw a stone in a straight line and you hit one of the _many_ members of my family. So are you going to tar _them_ with the same brush too?"

"Well, that's just ridiculous!"

"Yes, I agree," he said shortly. "The entire argument is ridiculous."

It was possibly not the sort of discussion for the heat and the haze and the strangeness of meeting in this secluded part of the valley. Her face reddened by degrees even as her lips turned pale in suppressed anger.

"Sorry… I'm sorry about that. I didn't mean it that way."

"Yes, I think you did." Her reply was all affronted head toss and tilted chin.

"And _you're_ not sorry about saying we're all _inbred?_ That reeks of its own _mainland_ prejudices, you know!"

"I didn't say that! I was only implying that your _attitudes_ were!"

"Oh, well, thanks for clarifying. That makes me feel better."

She huffed grievously.

"I really must be going, don't-call-me-Gerald. Thanks so much for the company. Have a fabulous summer, won't you?" she dripped sarcasm as she gathered her things, rising in the one fluid motion.

"Anne…" he scrambled. "Really, you don't have to go…"

"It's _hot._ And I've obviously outstayed my welcome. I won't deprive you of your sacred spot any longer."

She whipped her head around to give him a final doleful glare, and that's when the slight breeze caught those red tresses, her hair fanning out in a kinetic dance he realised he had seen before.

"I know you!" he breathed.

" _Pardon?_ "

"It's been bugging me since I first saw you. You were on the ferry with me coming over. With a tall brunette lady… you lost your hat."

Those grey eyes widened. "You were _spying_ on me?"

 _Er… not on that occasion…_

"Of course not! I was standing on the deck above you. It was extremely windy – it always is. The wind caught your hat. I'm… I'm sorry you lost it."

She paused for a moment, blinking rapidly.

"Well, that's the _least_ of what I've lost," she replied, giving him a look he didn't want to try to fathom.

She turned to get her bearings, the sun high overhead.

"Wait, and I'll see you back to your hotel or B&B or wherever," he offered, shoving his great weighty texts back in his bag.

"That's really unnecessary," she frowned, though she didn't exactly make a move to contradict her protest.

"All part of the Island service," he deadpanned. "And really, I wouldn't advise you coming out here into the valley again by yourself."

"What? Because you claim not just the tree but all the _land_ here as well?"

" _No,"_ he rolled his eyes, and his tone grew exasperated. "Because it might be _dangerous._ I could have been anyone you know!"

She gave a tight lipped grimace at this, as they began walking, but only muttered a very ineffectual response.

"I _have_ survived living in and going about _Toronto_ by myself, for your information."

"Oh, well, that explains it."

"Explains _what?_ "

"The misplaced air of superiority," he answered blandly.

She gave a short, derisive laugh. "Yours or mine?"

They smirked at one another as they headed back through the trees, up the hill and towards the main street through town. Honestly, if they could be civil for a few minutes – and steer clear of loaded discussions concerning their families – she might have been an intriguing sort of girl to know. Except for occasionally frustrating and annoyingly obtuse. And disconcertingly pretty. He would never ever admit it – he'd never hear the end of it, of the howls of delighted derision such an admission would bring from the younger male members of his family – but he had a bit of a thing for redheads.

Back up in the town the crowds and the heat pressed against them, and it felt another world had crashed into them. They stood awkwardly.

"Thank you for walking me back," Anne managed. "I'm good from here."

"No problem. I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit." He looked about briefly, and then pointed across the road and further up the hill. "Ah, that's my dad's office there. He runs the local law practice. I'm David Blythe by the way – that was your missing initial. If you need anything while you're here, well, don't hesitate."

Her expression was one of clear surprise at his offer.

"Oh, well. Thank you. And I'm Anne Ford. That's if _you_ ever need anything if you visit the big city and all."

He nodded, rolling his eyes again even as he flashed her a smile. She really couldn't help having the last word, could she?

"Bye, Anne."

"Bye … _Gerald._ "

She turned gracefully and joined the throng heading back down to the harbour. He shook his head at her cheeky farewell even as he was trying to process the information she'd left with him. Simultaneously, one of his mates waylaid him, and it was several minutes before he turned back to see if he could still spot that red halo of hair, but she was long gone.

Well, then, Anne Ford from Toronto.

 _Anne._

 _Ford._

From _Toronto._

His intake of breath was quick and sharp, and his mouth actually dropped open in complete astonishment.

Without even knowing it, Anne Ford had just met one of her long-lost, much maligned Glen St Mary relatives.

* * *

Anne crested the crowds on her way back down to the glimmering harbour which was now not so much _choked_ as teeming, and dived gratefully into the quiet cool of their hotel lobby. She had certainly done the right thing in heading inland for a few hours. Well, _mostly._

Their suite was empty, and she drifted up to the counter where she had left her note. Her mother had added her own message.

 _Hello Darling!_

 _Headache better! I went to the restaurant downstairs and had a lovely lunch!_

 _Just popped out to get a few things. We are going out tonight!_

 _Text me when you return and I'll come back straight away._

 _Isn't this just a lovely place?_

 _Love,_

 _Mom x_

Anne stared at the note a few moments, biting her lip. There was something about the tone of it. Her mother was a resolutely upbeat person – amazingly, considering what she had been through – but this here was a feeling that leapt off the page. _Happy._ The note was awash with it.

Which made her feel there had been a long, long time when she had thought she'd read that tone from her mother, and actually hadn't.

She started peeling off her clothes, bypassing the deep, luxurious claw-footed bath for the instant relief of the shower. She turned it on as hot as she could bear and let the stream of water pummel away her misgivings. She thought back over her most extraordinary afternoon.

She attended a girls' school in Toronto and wasn't quite as well versed in the ways of young men as she might have been; invariably she was either tongue tied in their presence or conversely overconfident and outspoken; it had certainly been the latter today. She knew she had clearly said some stupid things… not least that entire thing about her father… _that_ had been idiotic and ill-advised. It wasn't the sort of impression one wanted to leave your average gorgeous Keats-quoting college graduate.

She had meandered off the main road and had found the valley quite by accident; the beauty and seclusion of it beckoned her, and she felt able to breathe again, despite the encroaching heat. Anne had woven in and out of the trees, coming to see the oak: a lone, proud sentinel, and she had wandered over to seek its generous shade, circling the trunk and finding the initials there, like a calling card from another time. Settling down to an hour of careful and conscientious study she then felt able to reward herself with the long awaited reunion of Sir Roy Gardner and the fair Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. Of course, the heroines were always _fair_ , in appearance and in persona, when they weren't dazzling brunette beauties. She was yet to find one whose hair matched her own. It was rather harder for a hero to rhapsodise over red.

So she abandoned herself to the delights of Sir Roy; he all dark, dashing and debonair, but with the secret tortured soul of a true hero – Darcy by way of Heathcliff. The hour was upon them; he would have to declare his love for Cordelia and propose, or lose her forever. She was likely to faint in his arms. There was certain to be a scandalous amount of kissing.

And then… Anne was so engrossed she hardly heard it; the whistle, the crashing about – had some lone rambler lost their way? – and then, to her left, he emerged from the trees, as if born of them.

Flabbergasted wasn't quite the word. She was shocked and stunned and temporarily mute. And momentarily convinced she had fallen prey to her own fever dream. Roy had been on the page, and now he was _here._ Tall and poised, golden and still, dark haired and hazel eyed, with an impish half smile that called to mind Puck, although he looked wildly handsome like she had always imagined Lysander.

And those crazy, entirely adorable curls, too boyish, really, for a would-be medical student; the knowing intelligence in his speech and his smile; those searching eyes, gently laughing at her; the amusing incongruity of actually being called _Gerald;_ his hand shaking hers, as if transmitting an electrical current; the unlikely wonder of Keats under the tree.

But then also…

His subtle mockery… his shades of ego… his prideful over defence of his hometown… his quick flare of annoyance in being challenged… his too-obvious awareness of his own attractiveness…

She sighed. She wouldn't see him again. It didn't matter, how she had acted or what he had thought. Well, only a little.

She scrubbed at herself, almost as a chastisement, and then hopped out, towelling off and continuing her attentions in front of the mirror. She supposed her hair was darkening to auburn, but that was not the most convincing consolation. Her mother had refused laser surgery on her freckles. Her eyes were unusual, too, and made her sometimes look a little possessed. Which was obviously the general state of affairs she was going for lately… She might have tittered and simpered before him, out in the valley, but such games were anathema to her; hence, her friends at school would have it, and most of her Toronto cousins too, that this went a long way towards her general absence of a boyfriend. Despite, or even ironically because of, her family and their connections.

It didn't matter.

She heard the door, and her mother come in; Anne would say her mother _bounced_ in, as if on springs, if she didn't know any better. There was a summer glow to her in her smile and about her eyes.

"Oh, darling! How long have you been back?"

"Hi, Mom. Not long. I just thought I'd take a shower first."

"Oh, yes, it's so _sticky_ out there, isn't it?" her mother planted a kiss on her hair, and then waved her top about as if trying to catch a draft to eliminate some of the non-existent effects of the heat she had just herself come from.

"A bit of shopping there, Mom? Couldn't wait for Charlottetown?"

Her mother gave a grin. "There is a nice little dress shop not far from here. I have the prettiest sundress for you, love. I thought if we were going out…"

"Yes, I saw the going out bit. But where? You've already had a meal downstairs."

At this reminder her mother gave a disconcertingly girlish smile. "Well, _about_ that. We have an invitation to dinner!"

"Dinner? Dinner _where,_ Mom? Dinner with who?"

" _Whom_ ," her mother corrected absently.

"Mom?"

"I _did_ have lunch downstairs…" she ventured, as if trading a huge confidence, "and there was this very nice man who – "

"Oh, Mom! You're kidding? There's _always_ a _very nice man_ buzzing about you…"

" _Anne!_ "

"I only meant that as a compliment. All men look at you like that. You've never cared to _notice_ it before. Till _now,_ at least!"

"Really, sweetheart. Such an overreaction! It's nothing like that. And don't interrupt. I bumped into one of your dad's _relations_ downstairs. We had lunch, and discovered the connection, and he invited us to his home tonight for a meal. That's _all."_

"Mum – you just can't go around trusting random strangers like that!" she paused, biting her lip at her own inadvertent irony. "How do you even _know_ he was a relative?"

"About twenty family anecdotes about your dad growing up, for starters."

"You can't go to his place! You don't know him. He could be… _creepy._ "

"I didn't say _I._ I said _we…"_

"That's even worse! I can't go to this supposed relative guy's place! He has no interest in _me!"_

"He actually has a _great_ interest in you. He wanted to know all about school and what you hoped to do after. And it wouldn't be the three of us. He has a son, which means – "

"Oh, Mom! Now you _are_ kidding me! It's my _holiday!_ Am I expected to put up with some annoying little guy wanting me to –"

"Hardly little, actually, and hardly _annoying_ , I should imagine. His son just graduated science over in Nova Scotia."

There was the expression _the blood freezing in one's veins._ Anne could describe it now, exactly. It wasn't a slow trickle snaking its' way through her circulatory system. It wasn't a soft, cold mist. It was an instant flood, sharp and biting, making her stop up short, instantly immobile. It was fortunate her body was turned away in that moment, brushing her still-damp hair before it started fluffing madly, or else her mother would have seen her turn so pale as to be in danger of collapsing at her feet on the plush pile carpet.

"Nova Scotia?" Anne squeaked.

"Yes, love. So you could talk universities with him, I'm sure. Nice to get some insider information… and you could talk law with his dad… I know you're still tinkering with that idea. Rob's the town lawyer, apparently."

Anne swallowed with great difficulty. _Of course he is…_ And then, another thought, just as disconcerting… _Rob? First names already?_

Anne turned with feigned calm back to her mother was holding a new pretty top in front of her in the mirror. Her mother was all rosy glow and wide smile and looked about twenty.

 _Happy…_

"Did he tell you his last name?" it was the final, desperate attempt to stave off this madness. There could be several lawyers in town. Every other twentysomething guy probably studies science.

"Blythe. Rob Blythe, darling. Which is _definitely_ a name I've heard before."

 _It's a name I've heard before too…_ she thought wretchedly.

Anne's brush clattered back down onto the nearest surface. She was swathed in the towelling robe from the hotel, and drew the tie around her more tightly, cocooning herself against this ungovernable discovery. Her eyes flickered back to the mirror, and she could actually see the slow blush rise up and overtake her cheeks. Anne considered carefully.

"You really sure you need me to go, Mom? I could just stay here and watch some in-house movies…"

Her mother turned. "Not _need. Want_ you to go. Would _love_ for you to go. To see some relatives who have _nothing_ to do with any editorial views in the local newspaper… then _or_ now."

 _I'm sure some of them still love editorialising, though… and have decided views themselves… and searching hazel eyes…_

 _STOP._

She marched back into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bath, covering her face in her hands.

"Mom… I don't know if I feel the best, you know…" she called out.

 _Coward._

"Darling?" her mother questioned from the other room.

"I might have caught a bit too much sun today. You know – sunstroke."

 _Lying coward._

Her mother came back to appear at the doorway.

"Sweetheart?" her voice and face registered her innocent, instant concern. "Anne, honey, if you don't feel well enough, I certainly won't go… I won't leave you if you're not feeling up to it. It's not that important."

Anne's face was flaming now. She had very rarely played upon her mother's devoted nature, and certainly had tried her best to avoid doing so since her father had died. It would be so very easy to do so in this instance. To crush that little spark she had seen; to dim that smile; to dull those newly merry eyes. So easy… and so wrong.

She sighed.

"I think I should be fine… I might just need some water and a lie down for a while."

"Only if you're _sure,_ sweetheart."

She paused. "I am."

She rose up and crossed to the basin, to splash some water on her face, and followed her mother out to the lounge area. She would have to lie down to make good on her word now, but perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing.

Anne saw a deep green swathe of material peeping out of one of the shopping bags her mother had deposited near the sofa.

She took a little breath. "Is, that, um, my new dress, then?"

* * *

Some stubborn, belligerent, prideful thing in him made him return to the tree for an hour after she had left, flipping through his UMAT texts absently, fighting the insects and the heat and the tang of regret that he could still taste in his throat, like a bitter pill he hadn't quite successfully swallowed. He convinced himself it didn't matter… that some girl he had seen once before and would be most unlikely to see again and whom he was only perhaps remotely related to wouldn't care one way or another whether he wished he had been a little more charming and a little less condescending.

David rose slowly, pausing to again look at his initials sliced into the tree, this time with rather an aggrieved air. He placed a long fingered hand on the wood, remembering the touch of her own hand in his. That little jolt… of what? Of _nothing._ It was nothing. It was a random, chance, once-only encounter.

He managed to rationalise the entire episode perfectly well, till he stalked back into the house… to hear something he hadn't heard in a very, very long time… his father whistling.

"Dad?"

"Son! Glad you're home. I was not long off ringing you…" Rob Blythe rounded the corner, head in a towel, vigorously drying his own still mostly dark hair after his shower. "David, look at the state of you! Don't tell me you were out in it today? It's a damned furnace out there!"

"I _know_ ," he huffed, making a beeline for the fridge. "Dad, what gives? Are you… are you _going out?_ "

"Not exactly," his father smiled leadingly.

It couldn't be a date. His dad didn't _go_ on dates. His dad lived a quiet life now of work and fishing and occasional sparring with his closest cousins and friends over a beer on a Friday night. And he _didn't_ wear cologne at three in the afternoon.

"You need to get cleaned up, son, and then we have to get this place in order. And I need to cook something or other. We have approximately four hours."

" _Dad…?"_

"I stopped at the foreshore hotel before lunch; had to drop off some papers and whatnot, and nabbed a drink at the bar. And there was… this _ravishing_ woman there, sitting all by herself…"

"And you approached her…" David couldn't help his indulgent smile. Well, then. He guessed it was time.

"Of _course_ I didn't approach her. Don't be stupid! I was obviously terrified of her. So I sat at my table with a drink for half an hour till I was sick of Rory Clow harassing her, and then I went up eventually and we started chatting, and old Rory skulked off, and I've only just come home after lunch with her."

"Well, that's brilliant Dad… I'm happy for you. Really, I am."

"Well, thanks, son. I'm rather happy for myself," he grinned a rather Blythe grin, "but we are only talking lunch here."

David sat down heavily on the couch with a beer. Goodness knows he needed some inebriation and quickly. He toyed with the label, wondering if he should inform his father about someone _he_ had met this afternoon. And decided against it. What purpose would it serve?

"I'll help you with the cleaning, sure, Dad, and then I'll clear out after. Catch a movie or something. Though the meal is completely your disaster to contemplate – I'm worse in the kitchen than you are."

"Oh, no, son, not so fast! You're in this too you know! I need you here tonight as well!"

"Dad, _believe_ me, a _ravishing_ woman you met in the hotel bar coming here for dinner… you do _not_ need me here tonight."

His father flushed at the implication. "It's not like that _at all_ , son. Honestly! What do you take me for?"

David surveyed his father carefully. _I take you for a man who is still young and still handsome… and has been alone too long._

His father was obviously trying to read his expression, like the lawyer he was.

"David? I hope it doesn't bother you? If it does I can – "

"Dad, easy! It doesn't bother me. It would bother me _more_ to have you without any friends or… companionship… Ma would think the same. She'd be yelling in your ear, telling you to get over yourself."

 _To get over her._

His father's expression was wistful. "She would, you know, wouldn't she?"

"Definitely. I even hear her in my head lecturing me about the UMAT."

They shared a sad, knowing chuckle.

"So, Dad," David was eager to take back the conversation before his father lost his nerve. "About this dinner guest of yours…"

"Actually, that would be _two_ guests. She has a daughter she's bringing along."

He groaned loudly. "Dad, I love you and I want you to be happy. But I think for the sake of our future relationship I can't be playing _Cluedo_ for three hours with some nine year old."

"She's hardly _nine,_ son…" his father's eyes were contemplative, and his own slight smirk was traded back to him. "She's pretty much your age, or, well, maybe a year or so younger."

" _Dad…_ " his protest was despairing. "I _don't_ need to be _set up_ either!"

"Hardly set up, David! They're _family!_ "

He froze. _Family_ was rather a loaded concept for him today.

"What do you mean?" his tone had dropped to a quiet rumble.

"I was going to save it as a surprise… but, well, they're family members. Tessa Ford, the actress – or she _was_ \- and her daughter… from Toronto."

David was relieved to still be sitting down at that point. His eyes opened wide and kept widening, as he fixed his gobsmacked stare on his beer bottle. _Oh, blast…_

"Toronto, you say?" he amazed himself with a voice that was approaching calm.

"Indeed. I know you haven't met many of the Toronto crowd. For crying out loud, _I_ haven't seen much of them… we're talking _decades._ But Tessa and her daughter are travelling round the Island, and I thought the least we could do…"

"The _least we could do_ for a _ravishing_ relative…?" he teased.

"Oh shut up, you smart alec!" Rob Blythe laughed, a little shamefacedly.

David surveyed his father, who continued to chuckle to himself, smile wide, eyes bright and _alive_ again. Isn't this what he had wanted? And he should have known that a spot of reluctant fishing and a little bonding time was hardly going to do it… He should have realised it might have been a woman. He couldn't deny him this for the sake of saving his own embarrassment.

"Well…" he stood, stretching carefully. "I need a shower. As in _really_ need a shower. And then… well, I guess two able bodied, eligible bachelors can rustle up something edible."

The look he was given was more grateful than he deserved.

"That's the spirit, son!"

* * *

The big, white house with the fairy tale garret and the wide, shaded verandah welcomed them all the way back from the road. Anne's heart beat wildly, and she felt the familiar tug of memory; the heaviness pull at her, as if she was struggling against the undertow. She took short, sharp breaths. _What was happening? What was going on?_

She _knew_ this place.

She couldn't _possibly_ know this place.

"Oh, Anne, love – isn't it charming?" her mother exclaimed. "Don't you just love these old houses?"

" _It isn't too old… and it isn't too young…"_ ********* she thought errantly, like a demented Goldilocks.

They approached the steps leading to the wide front door, and although her mother climbed up nimbly in her ever-present heels, Anne paused at the first step, and turned to note the vast lawn with its trees sloping down to the walled garden and beyond, to stare in awe at _"the sunset splendour of glen, harbour and gulf"._ **********

She bit her lip.

 _This can't be happening._

"Oh, honey – look, it even has a name," her mother announced. "There's a little brass name plate here. It says…"

"… _Ingleside…_ " Anne breathed to herself, her throat tightening with her bewildered tears.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

My chapter title is again Robert Browning from _'O' Lyric Love'._

*from John Keats _Ode on Indolence_

** _Ode on Indolence_

*** _Ode on Indolence_

**** _Seven Centuries of Poetry in English_ John Leonard (ed.) was my beloved school Literature textbook in Australia. I am sure you can find the equivalent in Canada

*****from John Keats _Ode to a Nightingale_

****** _Ode to a Nightingale_

******* Any especially kind readers who have wandered over from my other story _The Land of Heart's Desire_ would know that my Gilberts have a fondness-even-beyond-that-of-canon for Keats and Shakespeare, and a slight obsession with Keats' medical training.

The first scene I ever wrote for fanfiction was the one here between Anne and a hazel eyed, curly haired young man; it was originally to be a modern retelling set in Avonlea, and the initial _G_ in question was of course for Gilbert. When I wanted a Keats-as-would-be-physician conversation for my other Anne and Gilbert (that which takes place on the train) I repurposed that conversation from this scene; what is left is a tiny glimpse of it here, and I hope you forgive the double-dipping!

******** from William Shakespeare _Hamlet_ (Act 1 Sc 5)

********* paraphrasing from _Anne of Ingleside_ (Ch 2)

********** _Rainbow Valley_ (Ch 2)


	4. This song of soul I struggle to outbear

_Thank you, readers and reviewers alike, for your patience regarding this new chapter!_

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

' _ **This song of soul I struggle to outbear'**_

* * *

Later, he would remember her eyes, as suddenly and startlingly green as the shade of her dress, and the recognition of her hand again shaking his, her mouth upturned in subtle mockery.

"Pleased to meet you… _David_."

"Very pleased to meet _you_ , Anne."

It was a strange simpatico, to realise neither had divulged the previous discovery of the other; that the mystical meeting under a tree was indeed perhaps a fever; a haze; a trick of the light. He felt around for his own smile as he acknowledged hers, hoping for bemused rather than sly, and was not entirely sure he succeeded.

Seeing Anne again with a new awareness he perhaps inevitably noted the features that were familiar; the red hair which was perhaps Ford but also very Blythe; the otherworldly grey eyes that occasionally popped up in his own family; the wide, generous smile that was clearly her mother's.

The fetching freckles atop the pale, translucent skin were entirely all her.

His father was regarding the quite beautiful Tessa Ford as if he was a creature emerging from an endless winter hibernation; sniffing the air; wondering; admiring; coltishly enthusiastic; and David was struck, perhaps for the very first time, by an image of his father as he might have been when younger; the long limbs and the engaging awkwardness and the winning, sincere smile, competing with the Blythe self assurance that took longer to grow in him, and was never perhaps the complete fit it had been in his own father or indeed appeared to be in his son.

They ushered their guests through to the lounge, offering drinks, the very image of modern male urbanity instead of what they really were; understudies not entirely sure of their lines and hoping they remembered all the stage directions. David joined the underage Anne Ford in a Diet Coke; Tessa Ford cradled her wine glass elegantly and Rob Blythe occasionally remembered his beer. Their small talk wasn't as excruciating as may have been expected; there was much to comment on regarding the beauties of the Island and the extraordinary spell of weather; there was the ceilidh the Fords had attended in Summerside; there were the local attractions not yet explored; there were the embarrassingly inevitable proud parent dispatches regarding Anne's latest school results and poetry competition entries, and David's Bachelor of Science and medical aspirations.

"Would you like to see the garden?" Rob offered hopefully during a lull in conversation. "Dinner can keep awhile. It's such a lovely evening, and the views are fantastically clear this time of year."

David noticed that Tessa Ford brightened with enthusiasm whilst her daughter visibly blanched. Did Anne Ford not want to risk further exposure to the elements? Did she fear for her shoes out on the grass? Did she not want to risk another outdoor encounter with _him?_

Her mother and his father walked ahead, both tall and lithe, chatting amiably, her mother's tinkling laugh carrying on the air. David paced himself with Anne out of politeness until she paused altogether, clutching a railing of the verandah with one lily white hand whilst the other clutched her equally and distractingly pale throat.

"So this is your house, then," she offered redundantly, looking around her with an agonised expression. "It's very… nice."

He wondered whether the heat of the day had so taxed her that it had caused her to forfeit most of her vocabulary and a surprising amount of her spirit, which had seemed subdued, if not indeed shaken, since her arrival.

"Thank you," he answered blandly, and then thought to offer more, but knew not what. "It's been in my family a long time."

"Has it?" she offered distractedly, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. "Did you walk down that slope to the valley today?"

"Yes," he nodded. "It leads directly there. Infact, if you yourself had gone a little further you would have come to the pond, which is quite pretty."

"Oh." She made a tentative move forward off the steps and onto what she seemed to regard as the uneven quicksand of the grass. She stared down at the brick wall frowningly, as if it personally offended her.

"You had a gate or a door in your wall?"

David whipped his head towards her. "How did you know that?"

"I… just a guess," she answered, unconvincingly, and started her slow, almost mesmerised walk towards it.

"It used to be much taller. The wall enclosing the garden, that is. But it was tumbling down and the door wasn't needed, so when I was small Dad had it redone."

Anne Ford arrived at the exact point in the wall where the door had once been, but not where the gap now existed to allow passage through. She reached out a tentative hand to touch it, stroking the brickwork reverently.

"Do you have some strange affinity for walls then, Anne Ford? Most people would consider them to be obstacles or obstructions, you know."

She broke herself from her trance, flashing him the grin he had missed from their afternoon.

"Yes, but sometimes you're lucky… and they turn into _portals…_ " she threw the challenge back over her shoulder as she dashed along the wall away from him, as quickly as her shoes and dress would allow her, and disappeared through the gap further along and into the twilight.

He was quick to follow, mostly because he was still uncertain whether she really wasn't some woodland nymph who would dart back into the shadows if he lost sight of her. He needn't have worried; she had stopped up short just at the entrance to the garden and he nearly barrelled into her.

"Oh, it's beautiful!" she breathed, looking around her with a wild, fevered sort of wonder. "It really _is_ a secret garden!"

He smiled and his hazel eyes regarded her carefully as she trailed along the flower beds and the bushes, her fingers brushing the petals and stalks and leaves as if she wanted to retain sensory memory of them. Her long hair, freed from the humidity of the day, floated behind her; a straight red wave rippling gently, or even a kite hovering on the breeze, with a slight curl at the ends that made him want to reach out and twist a tendril around his finger, if only to see whether it retained its shape. In the fading light it gleamed auburn spun with copper and gold, and he stared at it with an unblinking intensity.

"There's… there's no roses?" her puzzlement made him pause; she almost seemed affronted.

He was brought back from his reverie with a jolt, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. Really, were these the questions of a mildly curious guest or the cross-examination of the prosecution counsel?

"There used to be roses," he began tightly. "My… my mother loved roses. She was good with roses…" _Why was he even telling her this? He didn't know her. He didn't owe her any explanations…_

She had turned towards him, poised in long lines and gentle curves, her dress moulding to her delicate, narrow shoulders and waist before falling away to her knee. Her eyes on him were expectant; urging; he might have skittered from the story but something in her look to him made him lunge towards it instead.

"When she died… well, I knew that we wouldn't look after them properly… the roses, that is, and that they would likely die off too. Slowly… like she did."

He wished he could glance away, not wanting to decipher her wide-eyed look not of mere sympathy but of reluctant understanding.

"You pulled them all up?"

He shrugged, deliberately offhand. "It seemed the kindest pre-emptive measure. But my father was _not_ very pleased with me."

"I can imagine." There was a soft smile to her voice, which felt a little like a caress.

He coughed, not wanting to remember the dull, disorienting pain of those first few days, but drawn now into confessing completely to her all the same.

"I did a fair bit of damage, because I was stupid. And roses have _thorns_ , of course." He contemplated for a moment, looking down to the ground and then back to her, and she viewed him with that same quiet intensity from this afternoon. He took a step in approach, and then another; he offered her one long fingered, brown hand; his left hand, palm up.

She looked at him and then down to his hand in the gathering darkness, and then took it tentatively in both her own, peering carefully at whatever he meant her to see. And then she found it; the fine fissure; the thin, jagged white scar running from the base of the fleshy mound near his thumb almost to the pad of his fourth finger, as if pointing the way.

"You mangled your ring finger?"

" _Heart_ finger. * That's what Ma always called it. Because traditionally people thought there was a vein that led directly to the heart. So therefore, it became the ring finger and symbolic and all sorts. Meanwhile I tore a gap in half my hand, actually. It was pretty impressive. Heaps of stitches. Though I guess that was karma at work for you, because my mother was a nurse."

Anne Ford stared down at his hand for an uncomfortably long time, and then, in a gesture as delicate as the brush of a feather, as intimate as a whisper, she traced her own ring finger over the scar, slowly, as if trying to absorb it. His breath hitched.

"Do you think it was the universe sending you a message, or your mom?"

David swallowed with difficulty, and then chuckled darkly to cover his frayed nerves, both at the conversation and the sensation of his hand still in hers, which he extracted quickly.

"You mean, my ma from the _other side_ , warning me to stay the hell away from her roses? Well, I wouldn't put it past her, actually."

She smiled sadly at him. "I'm very sorry about your mother. How long ago?"

He took a breath, his hazel eyes on hers. "Two years."

Anne nodded and stepped away from him, her arms coming to hug herself, as if attempting to ward off her own memories. She flitted her gaze around the garden but didn't really appear to be seeing it now.

"My father has been dead for four," she offered in a flat voice. "Though no plants were harmed in the process."

David's dark brows flew up. "Your… your father _died_? Anne, I'm sorry. I had the impression that he was…"

"Still alive? Yes, well, I have trouble with my tenses when it comes to him."

She had begun to move around the garden again, agitatedly, her movements lacking her usual fluidity.

"So does this all mean we are actually related then?" she challenged, searching to change the subject.

He passed his left hand through his hair, ruffling his brown curls distractedly. "It would appear so. Sorry about that."

She gave her own laugh, deeper than her mother's and a little forced.

"Karma, I guess."

He smirked. "Well, don't worry. It's sure to be very distant. But my Dad will check it out for us."

Her expression changed. "Oh, really, don't bother him! He might think that I'm… well, _fishing_ for something."

"It's no trouble. It's actually his _thing,_ family history and all. He would have been an historian, I think, if there was any money in it. And, well, if he hadn't admired Great Uncle Jerry so much."

" _Great Uncle Jerry?"_

He was a lawyer and judge up in Charlottetown. * A great guy, or so I'm told. A war hero too- the First World War, that is. He died well before I was born, but he made a huge impression on Dad. That's where the _Gerald_ is from, actually."

"So you have _him_ to thank!" her tone laughed at him along with her eyes.

He rolled his own eyes. "There are plenty of dubious family names, believe me. Bertha. Walter. One poor guy was even given some girl's name. You got off easily with Anne, that's for sure. Although I'm pretty certain it's a family name, too."

"Really? I just thought my parents liked alliteration. I'm Anne _Alexandra._ Though, um, the Alexandra is after my father, Alexander… though he went by _Alex_."

 _Alex Ford… Alex Ford… Alex Ford…_

David frowned, searching his memory. "Alex Ford was your dad? The _playwright_ Alex Ford?"

"Yes," she answered shortly, flicking a pained glance at him and then looking away herself.

 _Damn. Alex Ford._

 _Damn._

"Well, a writer is going to like alliteration," he offered lamely, trying to steer their conversation away from the looming cliff face they were in danger of tumbling off.

"I guess so." He watched her walk in a distracted circle before perching herself on the edge of the bench his mother had so often reclined on.

"Well, plenty of alliteration _our_ side too," he was clearly reaching now. "My mother was Melissa Meredith and _her_ brother is Michael."

"Meredith?"

David looked at her curiously. "You've never heard that surname?"

"I don't think so."

"Or _Blythe_ either, come to think of it. I figured _that_ out today." He wondered how to chase away the haunted look that had come over her. Would he risk it? "Do you actually know _anything_ about the family?" he challenged, making himself grin shamelessly, sitting down next to her.

She sniffed and tossed her head imperiously. _Well, there, she's back again,_ he mused, a little relieved.

"I know _plenty_ about the family, Gerald David Blythe! It all started with the great Owen Ford, of course! _His_ grandfather was the schoolmaster, John Selwyn, with his romantic tale of waiting for his bride, Persis Leigh, to come across the sea to him. There was another Persis later on too… and our famed Captain Jim, naturally, who knew and befriended John Selwyn when he himself was a boy… And we have lots of war heroes, too! Captain Ford in the First War and in the Second World War his son was a great fighter pilot and…" her diatribe was rudely interrupted by David, who gave a loud, deliberate and extravagant yawn, and even stretched his long arms for good measure.

"That's _fascinating,_ Anne. Pretty much all the Fords there. I'm glad you have them covered. And that's all _great_ information you could find on the blurb of any edition of _The Life-book of Captain Jim_ , too."

Her pale cheeks flushed to the hue of her hair; both were divertingly becoming.

"Are you _sure_ we're related? Because I find the prospect _very_ unlikely! Not to mention completely laughable!"

And now he _was_ chuckling, because here she was, Anne Ford, as haughtily reminiscent of her branch of the family as it was possible to be; but there was also the Blythe pride on display and a fair measure of the Meredith argumentativeness to boot.

And she was very, annoyingly pretty.

"Well, we'll _definitely_ have to confirm it with my dad now!" _He was getting rather curious about the family connection himself._ "You might be my long lost aunt or something."

This earned him an expected snort of derision, but at least he had avoided catastrophe.

Fortuitously, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, smiling.

 _Where on earth are you? Dinner's ready!"_

He turned the screen around to her. "I think we've been summoned!"

Anne leapt up, brushing invisible lint from her dress. His gaze strayed inadvertently to the path her hands took. He perhaps wished he had taken the chance to tell her how nice the color was on her.

"Well, I wouldn't mind being related to your dad. _He's_ quite charming and lovely!"

David muzzled a genuine grin this time, as they both made their way out of the garden and back up the slope.

"You know you have just defeated your own argument there, Anne Ford. You can't have my dad and not me. We're a package deal."

That earned him a groan and an admirably theatrical head toss.

As they arrived at the house there was another buzz on his phone.

 _David- forgot to say Anne's dad was Alex Ford. 'The Life Book' play Alex Ford._

 _Best not to mention him!_

 _Yep, thanks for the heads-up there, Dad…_ David let out a long breath and ushered Anne back inside.

* * *

Anne was sure the meal was perfectly acceptable, if not exactly cordon bleu, but she could barely focus on the simple task of swallowing pasta and nodding politely when her name was mentioned in conversation.

The uneasiness pressed against her, like a corset slowly constricting her breathing, pushing her ribs, pulling in the trapped air tighter against her body, till it came in shallow, ineffective gasps.

" _I have been here before,_

 _But when or how I cannot tell…"_ **

The rooms were all wrong. The living room and the dining room had everything aligned incorrectly; furniture and appliances and even décor were positioned as off kilter as were her emotions. And probably her sanity. She saw the rooms as they were once, as they used to be, outlined as shadows; as a thin filmy material from the past draped over the present reality.

" _I know the grass beyond the door,_

 _The sweet keen smell…"_ **

What _was_ all that before about walls and doors? _Stupid!_ And the roses? _Idiot!_

" _The sighing sound, the lights around the shore."_ **

Really, it was just one meal. They had mere days left in Glen St Mary. Perhaps she could convince her mother to continue on a little earlier. Perhaps there was a pressing need for her to find a book for school in Charlottetown…

 _The Life-book of Captain Jim_ , perchance?

She closed her eyes against her sigh.

When she opened them, across the table a pair of long lashed hazel eyes were regarding her curiously, edged with concern. She had held his hand and traced his scar; had felt his pain call to her own. This tall, curly haired boy-man, with the _"splendid chin"_ ***and _"mouth twisted into a teasing smile"…_ *** Caught in his gaze, she returned it, unwaveringly; ensnared …

" _You have been mine before –_

 _How long ago I may not know…"_ **

The deep-rooted knowledge hit her as a blinding flash, and it took away her remaining breath and her reflexes too; her water glass, held aloft, came crashing down on the table, upsetting her cutlery, and all items sailed to the floor in glorious suspended animation. She lunged; she missed. The glass shattered with loud, resolute acclaim; the cutlery cluttered in jangling affront. Anne leapt in mortification in time not to offset but only to survey the damage.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!"

"It's nothing, Anne," Rob Blythe was quick to soothe. "Happens once a day round here."

David was already on his feet and soon at hers, using his napkin to retrieve the pieces of glass, long fingers nimble and quick; his scar obviously only a cosmetic concern now. She bent to help him.

"I've got it, Anne. It's OK," he murmured.

It wasn't OK. It was very far from being OK.

"Thank you," she whispered, straightening slowly, to meet the open query in her mother's eyes.

"Anne, love?" Tessa ventured.

"I might just use the bathroom, if you don't mind," she addressed the room.

"Of course, Anne. There's one downstairs but the upstairs is bigger."

"I'll show you," David offered quickly, noting her flushed face.

She followed him up the long stairs, which might solve one problem but would undoubtedly lead to a host of others.

On the landing he paused. "Ah, the bathroom's – "

"Yes, I know, thank you," she was too desperate in her escape to be cautious, and went straight past him to the right room, though the many doors were all closed, and did not turn back to ascertain his dumbstruck expression.

She spent five minutes in a panicked pacing and a further five in rallying, righteous self talk along the lines of _get your act together this is clearly ridiculous._ She surveyed the stricken girl in the mirror with grim dissatisfaction; her hair too bright and her face too pale and her eyes too disturbing. And in the meantime on the other side of that door there was a stranger who wasn't.

 _What was happening?_

Her breathing was shuddering and uneven, and the light headedness buzzed and swarmed. The knocking at the door started politely but then after a moment, hearing her strangled reply, became more insistent.

"Anne? _Anne?_ "

She swung on the door for support as she opened it. David took one look at her blanched face, sheened and waxy, and took her arm firmly.

"Steady, Anne," he instructed, his voice mesmeric and low. "You won't faint if you just breathe slowly."

It perhaps would have been romantic to faint; to swoon perilously and be swept up in his arms. It was to be sure the fabulous Fate that awaited Lady Cordelia; though her eager reunion with those characters seemed a lifetime ago – perhaps in every sense - and not just this afternoon. It was far more romantic to faint than to stagger, at any rate; his iron grip the only thing holding her upright, and David headed for the closest door, which of course happened to be his.

"Sit, Anne. And _breathe,_ " he commanded.

"Yes, doctor," she managed impertinently, just to see if she still could.

She perched on the edge of his double bed, and he crouched down before her, disconcertingly close, all eyes and curls and dark brows pulled together in consternation. Which wasn't really helping her.

He viewed her thus, quietly, for a moment, as her breathing slightly steadied. He then disappeared quickly, and returned with a glass of water.

"Let me know if you want to throw this one away, too," he commented dryly, a small smile hovering about his lips.

She rolled her eyes and drank, and began to feel marginally better. "Sorry," she croaked. "I guess… delayed sunstroke."

"I guess," he raised a derisive eyebrow.

" _Dave? Everything all right up there?"_ Rob Blythe called, and David met her aghast expression, and she furiously shook her head.

"Yeah, we're fine, Dad," he shouted from his own door, in a very male method of communication. "I'm just showing Anne some of my college stuff! We'll be down in ten!"

" _OK, son!"_

He came back towards her, and then turned and fetched something off his desk, messily awash with textbooks and papers and notes and his laptop. He brought her a magazine, which he held up.

"This is my college yearbook," he announced, his look wry. "So now you've seen my college stuff."

He dumped it back on the desk and closed the bedroom door, leaving it enough ajar so that they had some privacy but not so closed she would feel threatened. She swallowed down her flutter of nervousness; not so much butterflies in her stomach as a caged bird bashing itself; scraping its wings against the lining.

David frowned. "Anne, I am not trying to be rude, but there is something very strange going on here."

She was recovering herself, slowly. "Surely the only thing _strange_ is my clumsiness. I'm usually much more dextrous."

He gave a very faint smile at her weak joke, standing, hands in pockets.

"I'd say that actually you're usually much more _composed_ than you have been since arriving here. You're…" he hesitated slightly, "you're not quite the same girl I met today."

Her face heated.

"Well, I'd hate to be boring. And anyway, you didn't much like that girl this afternoon."

He stopped his pacing before the door. "What do you mean? How can you say that?"

"I annoyed you. I challenged you. I called you _inbred._ "

His widening smile was gently amused. "If I remember correctly, you called my family's _attitudes_ inbred."

She sighed, lowering her gaze to her glass. This line of thought was a good way to divert him, but it was a painful diversion nonetheless.

"Is there a difference? I was ill mannered and unfair. And look at the joke on me, anyway. I have only been dissing my _own_ relatives, it seems."

He regarded her with that laser-bright look; the one she feared might strip her soul away.

"Well, there are a few relatives I wouldn't mind _dissing_ myself; the ones that hedge in paying my dad for his services and expertise, for a start."

"So never work with children or animals… or _for_ relations?"

He gave the lightest chuckle. "Something like that."

She lowered the glass to the floor.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"Yes, thanks… a little."

"And … are you going to tell me what's been really going on with you?"

"No, not really."

He regarded her tacit acknowledgement carefully.

"My dad's a lawyer. I could use his tricks of the trade to get it out of you."

She shrugged. " _My_ dad was a writer. I could use _his_ tricks to imaginatively evade any line of questioning."

A full, knowing smirk now. "I think you already have."

They stared at one another in silent impasse.

"I guess… we should be heading back down…" she announced through dry lips. "I've interrupted the evening long enough. Thank you for… your help."

His smirk had faded quickly. "Don't mention it."

Anne rose slowly, testing her balance, too aware of his eyes upon her. She didn't dare glance around the room – she really didn't need any more mental images of this house – and instead walked slowly to the door. He was not barring the way but his not-inconsiderable bulk would make it difficult to push past him.

"Anne…" he seemed to grapple for the words. "I… don't find you annoying. I didn't today and I don't now. Just for the record. I find you unusual and intelligent and frustrating and…" his mouth seemed to fight for the remaining thought, "… _intriguing_."

She felt the slow heat rise to blanket her exposed skin; it reddened under his gaze as if his gaze was the midday sun they had both found themselves in today; she felt the prickle of it, and the tightness and discomfort of the burn, but also of the way it trapped the breath in her chest again and she thought the only relief from the burn and the breath would be if he might press his body against hers and obliterate both.

Her mouth fell open at the thought of these thoughts; strange and new and wondrous and terrifying.

His gaze dropped, fleetingly, to her mouth.

" _Some veil did fall…_

 _Has this been thus before?"_ **

All of the air had left the room. Gerald David Blythe, relative at large, stared at her in a way that was not, in her somewhat limited experience, strictly familial.

His hazel eyes, darkening as she stared into them, blinked rapidly, as if bringing himself back into consciousness. He inhaled sharply and then stepped away, snapping them both to attention.

"Come on, then, _Auntie_ Anne. They have dessert waiting. And my dad will be just itching to get out his family tree speadsheets."

 _Right. The relatives thing._ "Doesn't he know they have apps for that now?" she searched for a joke, her voice reedy.

He followed her out the door, and even attempted a chagrined eyeroll.

"Don't even _go_ there."

* * *

David sat cradling his coffee, wishing it was anything even vaguely alcoholic, and watched his father, as they assembled in the lounge, unfurl his spreadsheets like a proud town crier unrolling his parchment to proclaim an important announcement.

Tessa and Anne Ford were clearly and appropriately admiring.

"Rob, I thought you said you dabbled in a _little_ family history!" Tessa laughed in his ear, to his dad's faint flush of pleasure.

"This is amazingly detailed, Mr Blythe," Anne offered, quietly awed.

"Anne, please. It's _Rob._ Goodness knows it might be _Uncle_ Rob," his dad continued cheesily, and David felt the dark scowl crawl across his face and lodge itself there.

His father was certainly in his element, both with the enormous set of papers in front of them, too big even for the coffee table, and it looked like with the female company as well. Anne and Tessa inclined their heads eagerly. David barely resisted the urge to vault over the low table and snatch the sheets from them.

 _Right,_ then," Rob began earnestly. "I won't pretend we are the _only_ families here in the Glen, but we are the only ones that matter, obviously," he grinned. "So we have the three trees – The Blythes, The Fords and The Merediths." He drew the Ford tree on top of the others before him, and David bitterly lamented he was on the opposite side, deliberately withdrawing from any proximity to Anne (for his safety or for _hers_ he didn't dare contemplate) but now unable to see a thing.

"So up the top we have John Selwyn and Persis Leigh, the _Schoolmaster_ and his bride. I'm sure you're familiar with _them_ ," he smiled at the ladies, and Anne grinned broadly.

 _Yep, she sure is_ David pursed his lips.

"So John Selwyn built that beautiful old house over at Four Winds," Rob continued, "which is still in your family, of course. It's fully booked out at this time but I could ask the local estate agent if you could have a look through it while you're here."

"Oh, that's a lovely idea!" this from Tessa. "It's such a beautiful spot!"

" _Done."_ Rob smiled to himself, and then regained focus. "So, we see here…" he pointed to the top of the tree, as if a crow's nest on a large and hulking ship, "John and Persis married and had several children, once of them being Alice, and there you have your Owen Ford's mother. _He_ of course fell in love with and married Leslie Moore, who was a widow and a renowned local beauty, though her maiden name was West, and we are vaguely related to the Wests going way back… at least David is through his mother… anyway, in between falling in love Owen had met Captain Jim and was _pretty_ involved in writing his life story…"

David rolled his eyes at the beam of delight that shot across Anne Ford's face.

"Wasn't our ancestor _named_ after Captain Jim?" he reminded pointedly, resisting crossing his arms in belligerence. "And didn't our ancestors the Blythes _introduce_ Owen Ford and Captain Jim?"

"Glad you've been paying attention all this time, son," Rob directed a proud look over towards him. 'That is very true. And _that_ leads us to the link between the Fords and the Blythes, when the families intersect."

Anne had been following this new information avidly, but now she colored at the mention of _intersect_ , as if it was something illicit, and flicked a glance at him before concentrating again on the large pages of so many boughs and branches they resembled not so much a single large tree but rather a small, dense forest.

"So, Anne… Tessa… Owen Ford and Captain Jim were introduced by another Anne… right up the top of the other tree here… so you definitely have a _Blythe_ family name there… she was Anne Shirley, but became Anne Blythe… she had a daughter, Anne, as well, though the daughter was known as _Nan_. But Anne Blythe had lots of children – seven in all. The eldest son was James Matthew, known as _Jem_ , and he is _our_ Blythe ancestor…" his long Blythe hand, itself a living representation, brushed over the Blythes reverently," and the _youngest_ of the seven was a girl, Betha Marilla, but everyone called her Rilla. And Rilla Blythe married Owen and Leslie's son, Kenneth, and so Rilla _Blythe_ became Rilla _Ford_. And _there_ is your connection."

Rob sat back on the couch, looking eminently pleased with himself, believing he had just shared some precious secrets of the universe, though David was still bamboozled and he looked over to Anne, who seemed hardly comprehending either, touching the paper on which rested the names, auburn brow furrowed, as if she was trying to understand through osmosis.

"So, Dad, you're saying that Anne and I… are _related?_ "

Again, those grey eyes flashed to him, quick as the beat of a nightingale's wings, and he visualised trees and roses and sun and heat and heavy air and then, upstairs, too much heat and no air.

"Why yes, David, of course."

"Ah… exactly _how,_ again? So Jem and Rilla were brother and sister?" he persisted.

"Yes, that's right."

"And the only link is those two siblings?"

"Yes, sure."

" _How_ long ago was this?"

He tried for a studied nonchalance, which may have fooled his father and perhaps even Tessa Ford, but certainly did not fool Anne. _Her_ cheeks had taken on the hue of an overripe tomato, and she chewed on her lower lip anxiously, unable to look at him.

"Well, then… we're talking _generations_ ago…" Rob waved a dismissive hand, which returned to his precious papers, on which were emblazoned the names of their pasts but would also, disconcertingly, seem to hold the secrets of their futures. "You can actually see the male line in both families, down on through, nice and clearly…" Rob's finger traced the names along with his explanation. "All the firstborn children are male, which certainly makes things easier, regarding not only identification but also the passing on of property… So you have Jem Blythe, and his brother-in-law Kenneth Ford, Rilla's husband… goodness they were an unlucky generation. Young men in their prime in the First World War, and then lived through the Great Depression, just in time to see their _own_ children of age to fight in the Second World War. Just cruel, really. And we can't forget the Merediths, either – they had the same problem…" Rob dug out the third large sheet, scanned it, and pointed with a long finger. "There's Jerry Meredith, Jem's best friend, who married his sister Nan Blythe… such a very devoted couple. We would stay with them whenever we went up to Charlottetown – do you remember some of the stories, Rob? The _bats in the belfry_ story and all? Jerry and Nan had daughters, so they didn't have the worry of children in the war themselves, but certainly Jerry's brother Carl fought in the First World War and…"

" _Dad…_ " David pleaded in growing desperation, "perhaps this is too much information? I just wanted to know whether – "

"Do you mean Jerry Meredith is Great Uncle Jerry?" Anne piped up, tone admirably innocent.

"Why yes, Anne, that's right. Did David tell you? Jerry Meredith was my inspiration for going into law. Just the most terrific, wonderful man, so learned, but so kind. David's mother loved him too – both he and especially his brother Carl, though she was descended from another half brother, Bruce, who followed his own father into the ministry… Did you know that David's name is actually…"

"Yes, I _told_ her!" David groaned, perhaps more dramatically than the moment called for.

"… _Gerald,"_ Rob finished with a flourish, in a startling moment of paternal disloyalty.

"David – you're actually a _Gerald?_ " Tessa turned to him with a disconcertingly lovely smile. "After this Great Uncle Jerry? I think that is just _gorgeous!_ "

" _We_ thought so, too," Rob shrugged gravely, his tone all mock sadness.

Anne remained wisely quiet, all gleaming eyes, her mouth twitching at the corners.

He felt himself flush stupidly. "Yes, well, moving on…"

"All right, then…" Rob chuckled, and adjusted his spreadsheets. "So the Fords and the Blythes – and the Merediths for that matter – have their children and their children have children in the same general timeframe, almost keeping pace with one another. This wasn't uncommon after both wars… lots of children born in 1919 and 1920, and likewise after the Second World War. So Jem Blythe's eldest son and Rilla Ford's eldest son, Gilbert Ford, were _first cousins,_ both born in 1919 and 1920, respectively. _"_

"Gilbert Ford the fighter pilot in World War Two?" Anne remembered sweetly.

"Yes, Anne – you certainly know a bit about your Ford history."

 _Beam me up_ whispered David to himself, feeling like he might drag his hands down his face like that _Scream_ painting by Munch.

"Now _their_ sons - Blythe and Ford –" Rob's tone grew excited as he warmed to his theme, "were both born after the war, in 1946. There you have your Thomas Ford, Anne. Thomas _Carlyle_ Ford, actually, obviously named after Great Uncle Carl, brother to Great Uncle Jerry and _second cousin_ to our James Blythe. His mother was English, I believe. He'd be your grandfather, then?"

Anne nodded, quietly reverent. "Yes, Grandad Tom."

"He's still going well?"

"Yes, thank you. Fit as a fiddle. He plays a _lot_ of golf and has lunch with mom and I back in Toronto once a month."

"He's _quite_ a force to be reckoned with," Tessa noted, somewhat dryly.

"Ah, well he should get together with _my_ Dad, then. As I noted here on the tree…" he leant over, as Tessa and Anne did and David himself tried to do, "James my dad and your Grandad are second cousins."

"Which made… _you_ and _my_ dad _third cousins,_ Rob?" Anne's question was tentative, still figuring relationships and removes as she went.

"Yes, indeed," Rob's reply was careful. "I saw quite a bit of your dad, growing up, Anne. I have some fun stories about him if you'd like to hear them sometime."

"Yes, I would, thank you," Anne's equally careful, measured response made something in David's chest tug.

"David's mother, Melissa, knew him vaguely, as well. She was his and _my_ third cousin, too."

 _Here we go…_ David moaned to himself. He could hardly sit still in his seat anymore.

"You _married_ your _cousin?"_ Anne's smile to Rob was a little arch but mostly bemused.

"Well… distantly. Guess we wanted to keep all the good looks in the family," Rob chuckled.

"Three pairs of eyes swung back his way, making David want to dive under the lounge. He wondered, errantly, if Anne would agree with any of that sentiment.

"So _this_ means…" David had done his calculations, but really just wanted to have the matter confirmed once and for all, "that…"

"Did any of the Blythes write for the local paper?" Anne interrupted out of nowhere, the question earning her a sharp look from Tessa.

Rob laughed in surprise. "Hardly, Anne. I'm afraid we modern day Blythes are a bit too prosaic for that. There was a Meredith cousin, I remember… this is years ago. She edited the paper for a while. She's been in Charlottetown for a good decade, though."

Anne's lips pursed, and Tessa gave her a warning glare he was too tormented to try to decipher.

"Fourth cousins…" David announced wearily. "Anne and I are _fourth cousins,_ right, Dad?"

Rob looked up as if just remembering what had actually brought them all here.

"Oh, yes, David. Fourth cousins. Well done."

He thought he needed another coffee and a good lie down after all that. He watched as Anne and Tessa perused the charts for another few minutes, asking the occasional question. He'd only had the one question himself, and now that it had been answered he felt strangely calm. Fourth cousins _was_ indeed pretty distant. More distant than his own parents. Too distant, really, to explain this weird connection he felt, then, this strange knot of knowing tied up inside him, when he was with Anne Ford.

As if proving his point, she looked back to him, her eyes as unreadable as ever. He raised his dark eyebrows in silent question, with a small tug to his lips and giving an almost indecipherable shrug of his shoulders, as if asking, well, is this all right, then, this business of being linked in this way?

Her tentative smile grew and flourished under his gaze. Which was the best answer she could have possibly given.

* * *

A lull descends over the house once their guests depart. The creeping quiet is not unexpected but the ache of emptiness is. David assembles the dishes in the dishwasher whilst his father tidies up the living room, and he's observed him sit before the family trees, and knows he is thinking both of branches rediscovered and what feels like a whole tree lost; overturned in a storm, the roots wrenched from the earth, dirty and tangled and exposed.

He takes two beers out to the lounge.

"Cheers, son. For this evening. I really appreciate it. I even think the cheesecake was edible."

"Don't mention it, Dad. It was a nice night…" _what a bland, ineffective description of the past twelve hours_ , he frowned internally. "I had fun."

"Glad to hear it."

"But I suspect _not…"_ he turned mischievous eyes on his father, "quite as much fun as _you_ did."

David might have expected a knowing chuckle or a chagrined smile, or that long arm waving in dismissal of such cheek, but instead there was a pained smile.

"That's the trouble, son. I enjoyed myself _too_ much. In the company of a woman I brought to your mother's house. _Our_ house. I don't know quite how to feel about that now."

"Dad, you _know_ Ma would want you to – "

"Oh, David, I _know_. I know all the platitudes. She wouldn't want me to mourn forever. She'd want me to get on with my life. She'd want me to eventually… to find…" he shook his head as if to chase the thought way.

"Just because those are the things people always say, doesn't mean they're not still true."

A shuddering sigh. Rob rubs his signet ring; both comfort and habit. "Perhaps."

They contemplate life and their beer.

"So how about you, son?" Rob queries after a time. "How did you like Anne Ford?"

David also splutters his answer. "She's… she's nice. Interesting…" he falters. _Intelligent. Intriguing. And WHAT was that moment back in his room? "_ Pretty much a Ford through and through, I'd say."

His father can't help his grin. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

David rolls his eyes. "Not _necessarily…"_

"She was a smart young thing. Pretty, too," he gives a sly sidelong look.

"Watch how you talk about my fourth cousin there, Dad. And her mother was _passably_ pretty, as well. Although what's that word I'm looking for…? Was it, ah, _ravishing?_ "

"Yes, all right, Mr Wise Guy. I'll let that one go through."

"She _was,_ though, Tessa Ford. Your powers of observation weren't wrong there."

"Watch how you talk about _my…_ er…third cousin by marriage," Rob parries. 'If that's even a _thing."_

"Well, there was _some_ sort of _thing_ there, Dad. I think she likes you, you know."

"Yes, well…" now Rob _does_ wave a dismissive hand in embarrassed acknowledgement. "I think she is well used to tolerating interest from bumbling tongue tied idiots."

"Well, if I see any such characters I'll warn her. All _I_ saw was this friendly, handsome, debonair older dude dipping his toe back in the water – quite successfully, I may add."

Now the slow, warm chuckle comes, too. "Honestly, David. Where _do_ you get your _chutzpah_ from?"

"I hear it's a Blythe thing," he grins. "Though sometimes it skips a generation."

Rob Blythe's chuckle merges into a groan. "Tell me about it."

* * *

 _ **Interlude: ROB BLYTHE**_

 _ **Glen St Mary, PEI, July 1986**_

Around the time Little Robbie Blythe ceases being either little or desiring of being known as Robbie, he realises a sad and inescapable truth; he is hopelessly in love with Melissa Meredith.

There are some inherent problems with this realisation; firstly, she is his cousin, in the way that most everyone in the Glen are his cousins generally and she happens to be his _third_ cousin specifically; she is unaffectedly beautiful and self-awarely smart and has quite enough admirers as it is; and she is finally, in a way that is both wonderful and simultaneously, frequently torturous, also his best friend.

By the night of his eighteenth birthday party, Rob has almost resigned himself to his wilderness years on the sidelines; watching from afar, as the parade of undeserving swains passes by her, in all their inglorious mullet haired, pastel shirted, thin leather tie-ness. It is really his final, eleventh-hour opportunity; after the summer they will both be heading to Redmond, and then just see the nerds and the jocks and every cliche in between throw themselves at her. The thought makes his stomach lurch. Or perhaps that's just the rum and coke.

"So, buddy, who's it gonna be?" A strong arm claps him on the back, and the tall, rangy, glazed-eyed personage of Michael Meredith leers over his shoulder, breathing fumes that might fell an ox, or quite possibly the entire herd.

"Hiya, Mike."

"Howdy, birthday boy."

"Having fun?"

"More fun than _you,_ obviously." Michael gives a cocky grin, black Meredith eyes flashing in his handsome, pale face, and pulls at his collar to proudly display his latest trophy; already the reddened patch of skin on his neck, amongst the swarthy stubble, is bruising magnificently.

"That's pretty disgusting. You look like a vampire attacked you."

He flicks aside jet black hair. "I'll have to check. She _did_ have very sharp teeth."

Rob's grimace is comically exaggerated. "Really, _too_ much information. Don't tell me you were in my _room,_ either."

"I dunno. I wasn't really noting the décor. And there are so many rooms in this place of yours upstairs who's to know where you end up?"

Rob shakes his head in despair. "I weep for your future, Meredith."

"And I weep for your _present,_ Blythe." Michael scans the room with practised insolence, sharply assessing. "Honestly, V-Man, it's sad. You're eighteen now. You can't be going to Kingsport all clueless with those college girls. So I ask again – _who's it gonna be?"_

"Who's it gonna be _what_?" a clear, firm – and decidedly feminine – voice interrupts in answer.

"Jesus, Mel, this is a _private_ conversation!" Michael turns to lambast his sister.

Discomfited hazel eyes meet cool dark blue ones, intelligent and assessing and uncompromising, but as he colors they soften, and her features relax into a wry smile.

"Far be it from me to interfere with your important guy talk; I just came to wish _Goose_ here a happy birthday."

Rob sighs, passing a hand through the straight, dark brown hair that flops into his eyes, and Michael chuckles knowingly and with a glee completely disproportionate to the already tired joke. The three of them have seen _Top Gun_ at the commencement of the summer several weeks ago; Melissa has started to refer to Mike as _Maverick_ and himself as offsider and best friend _Goose_ from virtually the time they have left the cinema. It would have been an insider endearment he wouldn't have minded (last summer's viewing of _The Princess Bride_ had brought about a rash of romantically edged exchanges) but it perhaps isn't the _most_ desirable thing to be associated with the friendly but feckless friend who dies halfway through the film.

He tries to retain his frown but can't resist her quirk in challenge; and breaks out into a smile.

'Thanks, Mel."

"I have a present for you."

" _I_ might have a present for him _too_ ," Michael grumbles, with characteristic lack of subtlety.

" _Yours_ can wait, I'm sure," she arches a brow, the artful applique of hot pink lipstick and shadow, uncannily echoing the exact hue of her top, giving an older, knowing air to her declaration, and Rob worries momentarily what exactly she has overheard. "Think you can ditch your own party for a minute?"

Rob glances around the room, littered with half the teenage population of the Glen in various states of inebriation, even as she has his sleeve already dragging him away.

His heart is pulsating in time to the music; a loud and louder drum solo, rhythmic and rising. Melissa is beckoning him. Or perhaps it is Billy Idol.

" _In the midnight hour, she cried more, more, more…_

 _With a rebel yell, she cried more, more, more…"_

"Sure." He is breathless; heady. "I hardly think anyone will miss me."

There is almost a full moon,**** and the light is bright enough to see right down to the garden of Ingleside and the brick wall embracing it. They use the stepladder requisitioned long ago to haul themselves up to sit atop, with the expanse of the harbour falling away beneath them and the garden perfuming the breeze. Melissa Meredith is tawny hair which floats towards him and a distractingly short tiered shirt from which he tries not to notice long lithe pale legs emerge to tap out a gentle beat against the brick. When she was fifteen she had all the accruements of awkward adolescence; braces, hormonal hair; and a boyish figure requiring more imagination than perhaps even _she_ had been able to muster; and he was the one to love her. At eighteen, three months older than he – and a one-upmanship timing quirk she has never let him forget – she is beautiful beyond belief and he is still the one to love her, though too many admire her, and for all the wrong reasons. He hates this and then hates himself for hating it, because he is then no better than any of the others; wanting to hoard her jealously to himself; a miser not wanting to share a penny of her person.

"So, before you hear it from anyone else, I actually have just broken up with Tony Tennyson Drew."

He looks to her with surprise lit with the quick flare of hope. " _That's_ my birthday present?"

"No, idiot! Just for your information."

He frowns into the darkness. "Any especial reason?"

"No, not really…" she lifts a delicate shoulder in a shrug. "He was nice enough, but I don't think a long distance thing would do anyone any favours."

Rob hesitates at the edge, and then plunges in. "Just as well I'm going to Redmond with you, then," he deadpans.

"Well, of course I'd better hang onto _you,"_ she offers fondly, her smile wide. She flicks back her hair; changes tack. "So you've definitely decided on law, then?"

"Yeah…" he follows along with her new tangent, reluctantly. "Dad knew that medical school was never on the cards. He's probably a little relieved I won't be majoring in history after all and sitting there for four years contemplating my navel."

"Well, I've seen you in your speedos and it's a very nice navel. But I digress. We may not have another Dr Blythe for a while but the law thing will make a few Merediths happy."

He flushes unseen, both regarding the law and the speedos. He contemplates Great Uncle Jerry for a moment, but then decides its probably best not to invoke meaningful dead mentors when your general current outlook is desperately trying to be a romantic one.

"And no Dr _Merediths_ either?"

She snorts indelicately. "I had enough trouble convincing them of me leaving for the scary big city to study to be _Nurse_ Meredith, quite frankly. Though you'd think they'd be more encouraging considering Michael wants to become a used car salesman."

"I think the term you're looking for is _Insurance Agent,_ Mel," he grins good naturedly. "And he'll be scarily good at it too, so you'll have to let it go. We need _some_ people back here to keep the home fires burning."

"I hardly know if I'd trust my brother with the matches."

He shakes his head again, laughing softly, always bemused by the incessant sibling rivalry. But he is not here wanting to talk about her brother, and he shifts his long body impatiently.

"Well, at any rate… your present, birthday boy."

She fishes around in her little shoulder bag for a small box, and offers it with gleaming eyes.

He weighs it in the palm of his large, long fingered hand.

"Oh, well, I guess the answer's _yes_ then!" he jokes in his nervousness, and then screws his eyes tight at his own idiocy.

Luckily she gives her golden laugh in rescue. "Shut up, Goose! Just open it. We need to get you back to your party."

He does as bidden; he is not far wrong. It _is_ a ring, a signet ring; gold band catching dull shafts of light as he turns it in his fingers; a wide black face which could be onyx, with his initials in gold; _RJB._

"You said how you were worried, it you ever got to a courtroom, that you wouldn't know what to do with your hands… Well I saw some crime drama on TV, and the lawyer was giving his closing arguments, and he was completely still, very commanding… he just fiddled with the ring when he had to collect his thoughts. And it gave me the idea. I went in halves with Michael. I hope that doesn't make it too weird."

"No…" he gulps. "It… this is great, Mel. Thank you. I love it… it's really great."

He slides it over his right pinky finger. It feels a little like he has made a vow. He wishes he had gifted her a ring for her own birthday, and damn the consequences, instead of the delicate gold chain she now twists in her own fingers, with the gold heart punctuated by a tiny, infinitesimal diamond, which now winks at him in encouragement. Or perhaps in challenge.

He embraces her swiftly and a little awkwardly, given their perch on the wall, and murmurs his thanks into her honeyed hair. And once he starts he just can't stop himself; a mixture of too long longing and heedless desperation and unaccustomed alcohol.

"I love it… I love _you_ … I _love_ you, Mel…"

He has recited the words in his head so many times he thinks they are still part of his regular daydream. But he feels her stiffen and, no, he has just remade his own daydream as nightmare and the words so long unsaid leap away from him and he can't catch them and gather them back.

"Don't be a goose, _Goose,"_ she offers a little shakily, and shimmies neatly off the wall, landing in the garden.

He scrambles after her, his heart paining in his chest.

"Mel…"

"Rob… damn it! I knew I should have gotten you a monogrammed flask or something."

"Mel…"

"Let's not ruin your birthday with all this. Let's just go back inside, OK?"

He backtracks in panic. "Nothing is ruined! At least I hope it isn't. I'm… I'm not expecting the words _back_ , Mel. But I just needed to say them. At least once."

There. _There._ He is crazed with thirst and has broken the drought of years in one gushing torrent.

Her eyes look up at him; tortured, broken.

"That's _why,_ Rob! I don't deserve you to be saying them!"

"Don't be ridiculous! Guys tell you they love you every day, I'm pretty sure. Why can't I?"

"Because… because I know that you _mean_ it."

Of course he _means_ it. Doesn't she want him to? She is close to tears, and this from a girl who doesn't cry easily. His throat is raw and parched still, and nothing might alleviate the ache of it. It is closing around the words he wants to say to convince her, as if he might outline the case for his own defence. He grabs for her hands, holding them in his own, the weight of the ring already heavy against his skin.

"Do you not think that… we might be good together?" he rasps, more pleading than he means it to be. "We could go across to Redmond together… _really_ together… if not Tony Drew… then why not me?"

He is aware that the ring felt like a vow and this sounds like a proposal. He can see in her eyes that the symbolism is not lost on her.

"Do you not think…" there is a catch to her voice, "that it wouldn't be better to let the world open up to us, rather than close ourselves off from it…?

He scowls at the allusion, taking a step backwards. "Would being with me be such a death sentence, Mel?" his disappointment and his hurt give an edge of bitterness that makes her wince, and he drops her hands. "I'm just asking you to think about going out with me, not elope to Vegas."

The tilt of her head, the questioning of her raised brows, indicate she believes that, for him, there is not much difference.

"I _have_ thought about it…" she offers quietly. "Many times."

He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and releases a pained, pent up breath. He wants to say so much more but has already said too much as it is.

He looks away… to the garden, to the roses, to the bench seat, to anywhere but her.

"I guess I've spoiled everything now…" he remarks in a low voice, gravelly with regret.

"No, Rob!" she protests, stepping back to him. " _No… we must – we MUST go on being friends."_ *****

She takes his own hand, the one with the ring, and tugs him back to look at her. There is something in his face that makes hers crumple, and in a rush of movement and air and breath, she leans up and in and toward and her lips are there on his, pressed on his and with his and joining his and enveloped by his. He grasps at her mouth, drowning in her, plummeting and losing sight of the surface. When they finally come apart it is like breaking a suction.

There is silence. Or there would be, but for the distant music from the house and the sound of his own mind disassembling. How can she kiss him like that and not love him?

Her eyes are dark in the already dark but her glow of surprise is a new knowledge, lighting his way.

He raises an eyebrow, though his voice shakes. "You thought all this time it would be like kissing your brother, Mel?" the Blythe in him bursts forth, triumphant.

"I don't make it a habit of close personal contact with Michael if I can help it," she covers herself with the arch line and a look to match it. She turns away from him and folds her arms, not quite so resolute as before.

"So you're saying it doesn't make a difference," he sighs, puffed pride deflating instantly.

"I'm saying we would go out and eventually break up, and then you would hate me and I'd lose you."

"You wouldn't lose me, Mel. Ever."

She inclines her face back to him, imploringly. "You say that _now_ …"

"You _won't_."

He knows she believes him, but it won't change her course. She is nothing if not a Meredith. But then, he is realising, perhaps truly for the first time, he is nothing if not a Blythe.

He watches her walk slowly around, drifting towards the seat, bobbing away again.

"I'm pretty patient, you know," he finally offers.

She gives an uneasy little laugh.

"Job himself wouldn't be patient enough for this."

"Well, I guess we'll see, Melissa Una Meredith."

He only ever uses her full name sparingly, and only then when he doesn't think he is in imminent danger of attack. He still receives her industrial strength mock glare, but it is his birthday, for one, and she's broken his heart a little all the same, for another.

They stand, swaying, formless, spent.

"Come on, Goose," she finally manages, sounding exhausted. "You're very rude to abandon your guests like this."

His smile tries not to be too sad in answer, and she links her arm in his, casting away from the garden and the moon and the kiss and heading with him back up the slope.

* * *

David climbed the stairs to bed, pleasantly tired but not wearied, pausing as he had before to ponder imponderables, such as how someone new to the house was able to distinguish between virtually identical doors.

Or, even, how so much could change in a day.

In his room the echoes of Anne reverberated; where she had sat on the bed; the used water glass; the wall she had leaned against and looked up at him as if wanting him to kiss her.

Had _he_ wanted to?

He rationalised his response; certainly she was attractive, but she was much too young; certainly she was whip-smart and intriguing but also was already driving him a little crazy; certainly it was great to have met her but he had literally only _just_ met her and she would soon be leaving, probably to never be seen again, knowing her family's fondness for keeping their own counsel; certainly they were related, but too distantly to be of any consequence.

And yet…

He sighed. There really _wasn't_ an _as yet._ Almost… certainly.

In bed he scrolled through messages on his phone, then hesitated before a _google_ search.

On Alex Ford.

This information was there out in the public domain. It wasn't anything she couldn't have, and possibly would have, told him herself. Almost certainly.

 _Toronto-born playwright of the famous Ford family… Gemini-winning writer-director of the adaptation 'The Life Book', based on the famous 'The Life Book of Captain Jim' by relative and late nineteenth century writer Owen Ford… active in the arts and culture scene in Toronto and wider Ontario and in various business and philanthropic interests… known for exacting, perfectionist nature and behind-the-scenes dalliances… death by misadventure… survived by wife and 'Life Book' leading lady Tessa Ford and daughter Anne Ford…_

David sighed, chest tight. This was the mercurial girl he had met; the girl without a father, and in such a way. If she had been brittle at times… if she had been defensive and haughty… well, who could blame her? And yet, that wasn't all there was to her, not at all. There was a sweetness and gentleness too, and a stillness that quietened the restlessness in him. He could hardly bear to look at a link, to a photo from the memorial service; Tessa, beautiful as ever, with the added fragility of the recently bereaved; and Anne… he swallowed. Younger Anne, early teens, with her grave eyes and pinched, pale face and…

For a second, disgusted with himself, he threw the phone down.

She had looked at him, had traced his scar with her finger, had taken his pain for her own.

 _Maybe… maybe… he HAD wanted to kiss her._

He retrieved his phone. Saw another link.

Anne Ford on Facebook.

It wouldn't be her. There were a hundred Anne Fords in the world; and Ann without the e and Annies and perhaps she went by Alexandra for anonymity. Perhaps she was morally against the idea of social media. She would definitely be against the idea of him now scrolling quickly through the other very many women and girls with her name; Facebook was not good for those who held onto the fragile idea that their identity was unique and special. He scrolled and scrolled through all the Anne Fords he was absolutely in no way related to. And then he paused. He clicked; it was her. A profile shot of a face partially hidden by a large hardcover book; a flash of red.

Unmistakably, irrefutably her. He would know her even after a day.

 _How_ should he feel he knew her after only a day?

He would stay well away from thoughts about kissing, but perhaps they could be friends. Cousins, you know.

He sent the request through to her, that girl behind the book, before he thought better of it.

He was too keyed up to sleep now, and so he unpacked the MCAT texts from his backpack; arranged them on his desk, shuffled piles of papers, mentally ran down a study schedule. Seriously, he would _have_ to start work tomorrow, or he might as well front up now to one of the little local cafés and offer his permanent services.

He glanced back at his phone; saw the message; saw the request accepted.

His surprised intake of breath was sharp.

Well, _friends._ It was official.

And she was _awake right now._

He realised he would be able to access her information; the photos and posts and snippets from her life; her soul laid bare. But he was rather laid bare himself in turn. It was a weird sort of intimacy to be flicking now through her profile and information, knowing she was likely doing the same.

He crossed to his own account, and saw that she was there already.

He swallowed.

What had he posted lately?

Well, whatever there was, she was liking it and laughing at it and occasionally loving it. It was a very shallow sort of validation, but he accepted it gladly; she was not an easy person to please. He was likewise doing the same, even adding the occasionally hopefully witty remark; she liked these too, and he wondered at this fragmented correspondence and whether he should just have a proper conversation with her; even a virtual one. He paced the room, cradling his phone, contemplating. He launched his PM, like a sailboat pulling away from the harbour.

 _David: 12.03am Hi there._

 _Anne: 12.04am Hi!_

 _David: 12.04am Well this is a new one for me. I hadn't even met you this morning._

 _Anne: 12.05am Yesterday morning! This is your second day having met some of the extended family._

 _David: 12.06am You are quite the stickler for detail._

 _So this is not too weird?_

 _Anne: 12.06am No more so than anything else that has happened to me today._

 _Anne: 12.07am Well, yesterday._

 _David: 12.07am What was so weird about yesterday? LOL_

 _Anne: 12.07am Exactly!_

 _David: 12.08am So… you really, really DO like English Victorian poets, then._

 _Anne: 12.08am Did you ever doubt it?_

 _David: 12.08am Even the films you like are old._

 _Anne: 12.09am If you start saying 'old' in relation to the 1980's, I believe I'll have to inform your father._

 _David: 12.09am OK, OK! Retro, then._

 _Anne: 12.09am Marginally better._

 _Anne: 12.10am And as for YOU… The X Files? Really?_

 _David: 12.10am Well, the Truth is STILL out there, it seems. Someone has to find it._

 _Anne: 12.10am If you say so, Mr Science Nerd._

 _David: 12.11am Excuse me. Hopeful Med Student Nerd._

 _Anne: 12.11am My apologies._

 _David: 12.12am Not that I'm getting ANY studying done._

 _Anne: 12.12am That's a shame. You might have to look at some time management strategies._

 _David: 12.13am Yes. They involve locking myself in my room for approximately 8 hours tomorrow._

 _David: 12.13am Er, today._

 _Anne: 12.13am It's Saturday!_

 _David: 12.14am I KNOW_

 _Anne: 12.14am I guess that's exciting… possibly all the way out here you don't have many options…_

 _David: 12.15am Funny._

 _Anne: 12.15am So… you wouldn't be coming, then? Tomorrow? Um, today?_

 _David: 12.15am What's happening today? Did I miss something?_

 _Anne: 12.16am I think… the summer house at Four Winds. If your dad can get access._

 _David: 12.16am Really?_

 _Anne: 12.17am Well, it's not set in concrete…_

 _David: 12.17am Damn._

 _David: 12.17am Sorry. I mean… that's a shame._

 _Anne: 12.18am Have you ever seen it?_

 _David: 12.18am The house? No. At least not that I can remember. But the views up that way are amazing._

 _Anne: 12.18am We can put it off…_

 _David: 12.19am No! Of course not! Don't put it off. You need to go. It's your house._

 _Anne: 12.19am Hardly. Grandad Tom's house._

 _David: 12.20am The FORDS' house. GO. Have a great day! Take some photos and put them on here._

 _Anne: 12.20am Wait a sec._

 _David: 12.20am Anne?_

 _Anne: 12.21am Just a minute! I need to ask my mom something._

 _David: 12.21am Anne, if you're going to postpone it because of me…_

 _David: 12.23am Anne, don't postpone it! Really. It's your holiday._

 _David: 12.25am I'll feel awful if your day is stuffed around just because…_

 _Anne: 12.25am Done! Changed to Sunday! My mum is about to ring your dad…_

 _David: 12.26am Anne – you didn't need to do that!_

 _David: 12.26am Hang on… they swapped numbers?!_

 _Anne: 12.27am Must have._

 _David: 12.27am This is unprecedented. My dad I mean. He's never… that is –_

 _David: 12.27am That's the phone! The landline…_

 _Anne: 12.28am Aren't you going to answer it?!_

 _David: 12.28am And ruin another chance for him to talk to your mom?_

 _David: 12.29am He's picked it up anyway._

 _Anne: 12.29am Are you both downstairs?_

 _David: 12.30am Dad's downstairs. I'm up in my room. You know, what's behind door number two…_

 _Anne: 12.30am Oh, right. Of course._

 _David: 12.31am You?!_

 _Anne: 12.31am Well, we have a fairly big suite here. At the hotel. There's two bedrooms and a kitchenette and a living area. I'm in my room but mom's on her mobile in the lounge._

 _David: 12.32am Got it._

 _He's still on the phone you know. That's SEVERAL minutes._

 _Anne: 12.32am I just hear laughter from my end._

 _David: 12.33am That's encouraging at least._

 _David: 12.33am Hang on Anne…_

 _David: 12.38am OK, sorry about that. My dad just came up. Apologising for all the mix ups. And now he says you won't go on a picnic with them tomorrow either?_

 _Anne: 12.39am David, if it was just ME with THEM… well, I'd feel about five._

 _David: 12.39am This is all my fault. What are you going to DO tomorrow now?_

 _Anne: 12.40am It's not! Anyway I can hang out on my own you know. And I thought I'd maybe check out the library, do a little local history research._

 _David: 12.40am Local history research? Are you KIDDING?!_

 _Anne:12.41am OK, FAMILY research then._

 _David: 12.41am Oh…_

 _Anne: 12.42am It's OK. I really want to do this. I mean it!_

 _David: 12.42am Seriously?_

 _Anne: 12.43am Yes, absolutely._

 _David: 12.44am Well, you know, my dad has more local history books than the library does. And heaps of family stuff. You have no idea – it's all here up in the attic. Boxes and boxes of it. War stuff, letters, photos…_

 _Anne: 12.44am Photos?_

 _David: 12.44am Yeah._

 _Anne: 12.45am But… you need to study!_

 _David: 12.45am I'll be fine. I will demonstrate excellent time management skills, I promise._

 _Anne: 12.46am Um, are you sure?_

 _David: 12.46am Positive._

 _Anne: 12.46am Well, OK, thank you._

 _David: 12.47am Come round any time._

 _Anne: 12.47am I think my mom mentioned 10am?_

 _David: 12.48am Perfect. You'll easily recognise me. I'll be the one in the 'I Want to Believe' t shirt._

 _Anne: 12.48am I don't doubt it for a second._

 _David: 12.49am I think they're STILL talking!_

 _Anne: 12.49am Kids these days…_

 _Anne: 12.50am Actually… What does this MEAN?!_

 _David: 12.50am Er… it means what you think it means…_

 _Anne: 12.51am As in? After only a day?!_

 _David: 12.51am Excuse me, WE have only known each other a day._

 _Anne: 12.51am Two days._

 _David: 12.51am Two days!_

 _Anne: 12.52am Snap_

 _David: 12.52am Jinx_

 _Anne: 12.53am It is very R and J of them…_

 _Anne: 12.53am Sorry, I mean –_

 _David: 12.53am Romeo and Juliet?!_

 _Anne: 12.54am Yes…_

 _David: 12.54am Well, that was Day One. They have three more left._

 _Anne: 12.55am You remember the timeframe?_

 _David: 12.55am Of course. Doesn't everyone?_

 _Anne: 12.55am No! Guys never do!_

 _David: 12.56am What can I say?!_

 _Anne: 12.56am Keats AND Shakespeare…_

 _David: 12.56am Yes…?_

 _Anne: 12.57am I guess it's reluctantly impressive. For a Pre Med Nerd._

 _David: 12.57am You should see me quote entire episodes of 'Star Trek.'_

 _Anne: 12.57am Oh, now, see, that's where you lose me._

 _David: 12.58am NOOOOOOOOO!_

 _David: 12.59am COME BAAAACCCCKKKK!_

 _Anne: 12.59am Who's retro now?!_

 _David: 1am Fine. You win!_

 _Anne: 1am :)_

 _David: 1.01am My dad has JUST GOTTEN OFF THE PHONE! That was completely half an hour._

 _Anne: 1.02am Well, your dad IS very sweet. And charming. I can't really blame her._

 _David: 1.02am Cough, cough!_

 _Anne: 1.02am ?_

 _David: 1.03am What about me? You know. The sweet and the charming et cetera._

 _Anne: 1.03am My understanding is that some traits can skip a generation._

 _David: 1.03am Harsh!_

 _Anne: 1.04am ;)_

 _David: 1.04am I guess that… reluctantly… it's goodnight, cuz._

 _Anne: 1.05am That DOES sound Shakespearean!_

 _David: 1.05am Well, you know… come for the looks, stay for the banter_

 _Anne: 1.05am I cannot BELIEVE we are related!_

 _David: 1.06am Goodnight, Anne Ford. See you tomorrow._

 _David: 1.06am Today._

 _Anne: 1.06am Goodnight, Gerald 'that's adorable' Blythe._

 _David: 1.07am :)_

* * *

Long, long after the twinkling harbour lights through her open window might have lulled her to sleep, and when her mother had eventually relinquished her phone and retired to bed, Anne lay, staring into the darkness, reflecting on a remarkable day that felt like a year.

She had come to the Island to perhaps find some answers about her father, and dared not think she was beginning to find them with regards to herself. Though each answer posed another, different question; she could sit there until forever, endlessly _"weav(ing) night and day"_ ****** trying to separate and unknot the skeins of yarn that were gathered in front of her, the separate hues twisting and turning and joining in multicolored madness; the start and end indistinguishable.

Was _her_ start and end indistinguishable? Was her life begun long ago, and this in itself was just another chapter?

Was _his_ the same _?_

She had looked to him and she had known him, and she wondered both how on earth and between the stars that was possible and yet how it could be otherwise.

" _Sometimes thou seem'st not as thyself alone_

 _But as the meaning of all things that are…" *******_

And now she found herself amongst the trees, _light winged,_ ********flitting here and there, landing on each leaf and then each branch, testing each name on her lips. Ford… Meredith… _Blythe._

 _The link between the Fords and the Blythes… where the families intersect._

Was she Rilla? Had she been the youngest girl growing up in Ingleside? To meet and marry the handsome Ford son?

Was _he…_ that handsome son? " _A rose by any other name….?"_ *********

 _Kenneth… Ken._ She tried to conjure him; she repeated his name, whispered, reverent, into the darkness.

She tried to dream him, the tall curly haired boy; across the dining room table; across the gate. To call to him from up the lane.

But he would not hear. He would not turn. He would not come.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

My chapter title is from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's _'The Soul's Expression'._

*This is a loving tribute to _elizasky's_ _Digitus Cordis_ from her _'Glen Notes';_ one of my favourite of all my many favourites of her writings. In establishing that my modern David/Gerald has links to our Gilbert Blythe of long ago, I tried to insert the not-at-all subtle homage here. Obviously this is not a canon incident but of what I like to refer to – and what most of us would probably acknowledge as - _elizasky's_ _New Canon._ So in short, it didn't _actually_ happen, but of course it did x

Whilst we are on this subject, I need to acknowledge my indebtedness to _elizasky_ in every single respect for what will become of this story going forward. When I first envisioned modern day Fords and Blythes and Merediths – oh my! – I knew that I wanted to hearken back to their ancestors too, and to tell of some of _their_ stories and links to their future generations. When I considered which branches of the family tree Anne and David would spring from it soon became clear that some iterations of these Blerediths were so vivid in my mind, and so precious and _sufficient_ as they were, that I could not tamper with them. So in this universe of mine we have some _New Canon_ truths – Shirley and Carl are gay; Kenneth Ford is in every way obnoxious and annoying (sorry, _kslchen!_ ) and everything that has happened in _Glen Notes, Dispatches_ and everything that will happen in the upcoming _The Happiness We Must Win_ \- all from _elizasky_ \- I take, beg, borrow and steal for my own, with _elizasky's_ kind and typically humorous, generous and indulgent blessing. So there will be stories and incidents and talismans from her universe that find their way into mine, and I hope you enjoy discovering them. Though one thing is certain – there will absolutely be Whitman 😊

A further thank you to _elizasky_ in helping me unravel the many twisted branches of the Ford-Blythe-Meredith family trees, and also to _Rebecca the Historian_ for her enthusiastic response to this same endeavour.

**Dante Gabriel Rossetti _'Sudden Light'_

Although Rossetti helped found the Pre-Raphaelite movement, he also wrote over 300 poems. He and his fellow Pre-Raphaelites took much inspiration from the works of Keats and Tennyson, whom they considered chief amongst their 'Immortals' – writers and artists they admired above all others. When Moxon's 1857 edition of Tennyson's works was published, it was illustrated by Rossetti and fellow Pre-Raphaelite William Holman Hunt.

*** _Anne of Green Gables_ Ch. 34 and Ch. 15 respectively

****For anyone desiring to know these things, there was a full moon on Sunday 20th July 1986, though I am positive Glen St Mary would save its birthday celebrations for the Saturday night, when I am sure the light would still be sufficient here 😊

***** _Anne of the Island_ Ch. 20 'Gilbert Speaks'. Naturally.

******Alfred, Lord Tennyson _'The Lady of Shalott'_

*******Rossetti Sonnet XXVII _'Heart's Compass'_

********John Keats _'Ode to a Nightingale'_

*********William Shakespeare _Romeo and Juliet_ Act 2 Sc 2


	5. My future copy safe my past

**Chapter Five**

' _ **My future will not copy fair my past'**_

* * *

 _Thank you to all my faithful readers and to my wonderful reviewers. I will thank you all individually in time – and sorry to be so behind in this - but I also do so here, with love. A few of you may notice some references to yourselves - or at least your reading habits! – and these are completely and lovingly intentional x_

 _Please know that I have started an M series of short stories relating to the characters here in_ Betwixt, entitled _**By a Beating Heart at Dance-time.**_ _The first story, relating to Rob and Tessa, is up on the M section of the site. If M is not for you please note that you will still be able to read these main chapters of_ _ **Betwixt the Stars**_ _and enjoy them without losing anything._

 _This chapter is dedicated to_ _ **elizasky**_ _, for her amazing beta read of this; and who gave us her Shirley and Carl… and Whitman x_

* * *

 _ **Interlude: ROB BLYTHE**_

 _ **En route to Kingsport, Nova Scotia; late August 1986**_

Their Island home seemed to reach back to them, beckoning as an elderly relative reluctant to part, even as the ferry chugged resolutely towards the mainland and the late afternoon sun dipped lazily towards the sea. Rob and Melissa leaned over the railing of the upper deck, welcoming the blasts of salt spray carried on the wind, which whipped their hair into frenzied creations normally requiring the liberal application of hair gel, and forced them to soon seek the relief of the upper deck lounge. Thankfully it was all but deserted by the marauding hordes, including both sets of parents, a level down, currently staking out the snack bar.

They expelled joint sighs, stretching out their sea legs to rest on the padded seats of the plastic chairs opposite. There had been a flurry of farewells that morning, from various interconnected family members and the occasional friend, and a surprisingly taciturn Michael, who appeared uncharacteristically overcome with eleventh hour misgivings to see his younger sister and his best friend depart for the big wide world, or at least what smaller approximation of it could be found in Kingsport. After the car ferry over they would drive together in their small convoy; the generals of the families Blythe and Meredith would settle their troops into their barracks, and after a hopefully quick and mercifully low key farewell, would enjoy dinner together at their hotel and undertake the reverse trip the following morning… leaving said troops to acclimatise themselves to their new surroundings. And to the gastronomic vagaries of college dining halls.

"It's quite a big campus, now," Rob mused after a time. "We're on opposite sides to it. I might hardly see you."

Melissa looked up at him from beneath her carefully teased fringe, dark blue eyes trying to ascertain how forlorn he appeared at this prospect. It had taken around a week for them to recover ground after their encounter at his party; she had momentarily feared something precious between them might have been lost out in the night air, even as she had gained some surprising, troubling truths in the exchange. But the good looking companion beside her had determinedly shaken off his hangdog persona to become as blithely cheerful as his name, and as affectionately teasing as ever, and the summer had continued in charmed Island fashion.

"Of course you'll see me," she reasoned, for herself as much for him. "We'll organise lunch dates, join some clubs, do whatever it is people do at college."

Rob nodded, but she felt he wasn't entirely convinced.

"Anyway, just wait till all those law babes get a peek at you, Robert James Blythe."

His chuckle was low. "I'm more worried about those rich city doctors getting a look at _you,_ Nurse Meredith."

"You don't need to worry about that till at _least_ second year."

"That's not entirely reassuring."

It was truth masquerading as banter, of course, and they both knew it. Whatever college had in store for them was more likely to pull them apart than push them together. It was perhaps a necessary thing, and even a desirable outcome; Melissa hoped he saw that, even if he didn't like it. If they had a bond to last, it perhaps needed to be starved for a little while, instead of overstuffed and crammed; to strive for a connection that was a gift and not a habit; something that came from true chemistry and not just mere proximity.

"Well, in case you think you'll forget me, here's a reminder." He fished in the pocket of his denim jacket, withdrawing a box that might house jewellery of some description, _typically._

" _Rob…_ " her startled look of misgiving failed to note the twinkle of mischief in those hazel eyes.

"Mel, seriously, just open it."

Her breath taking a momentary hiatus, she did as instructed. Her own eyes widened in relief and delight, scooping the cassette tape up to peruse its handwritten contents eagerly.

"Rob! A mix tape! That's so… cool." Her enthusiasm died a quick death as she quickly scanned the songs in his careful, upright hand. This was a mix tape of scarily lovelorn sentiments, with a tiresome track listing of breaking up and making up, and all the obsessive behaviours in between.

Rob leaned in, explaining with a disturbingly reverent tone. "I thought I'd make the _Story of Us._ All the important moments in our lives so far; all the songs with great memories and meaning. I had to start with _Yaz._ Obviously. _'Only You'_ was our first dance. Remember?" *

"I remember…" Mel echoed weakly.

"Well, there are some classics here, too. _'Every Breath You Take'._ They say it's about some stalker, but it's always seemed pretty romantic to me. A bit of Wham! there – _'I'm Your Man.' 'Don't You (Forget About) Me'…_ we really liked _The Breakfast Club,_ after all. Great movie. Um, Berlin, from _Top Gun,_ of course. And there are, um, heaps of 'love' ones…" he appeared, to her horror, to take a great, shuddering breath, as if trying desperately to restrain some huge emotion, "you know, the ' _Glory of Love'_ and both Huey Lewis and Jennifer Rush's _'The Power of Love'_ and… and…" he flicked a glance at her, and then seized his stomach, as if about to double over, and let out a gasp which became… a laugh.

Hysterical, breathless laughter.

"Oh God…" he managed, between breaths. " _God_ , Mel. You should… see… your face!"

He laughed and writhed on the seat beside her, his hyena howls loud in the stillness of her incredulity.

" _What?_ " she asked, not comprehending.

"Mel, I'm sorry… I couldn't resist."

"This is… a wind up?"

His laugh strangled speech; he could only nod in assent, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"This isn't… you've been… oh, you ratfink!" She scowled admirably, and then punched him in the arm in both indignation and relief.

"This is your _actual_ tape," he rescued from his other pocket, handing over a mix reassuringly proclaiming all her current loves… Billy Idol, Bon Jovi, Madonna, Glass Tiger and Peter Gabriel, et al.

Mel shook her head. "You had me _completely_ going there!"

"That was the idea," he grinned, calming himself.

"So there's nothing on this?" she gestured to the first tape.

"Oh, well, yeah, there is. I had to do those as a back up. That tape is completely full of those songs. In case my straight face held out, I was going to play some of them on my Walkman for you."

She rolled her eyes extravagantly. "You are a _rat,_ Goose!"

"Er… you might have to make up your mind about the animal symbolism, there."

She huffed and considered her tape again, mollified.

"Thanks for the tape…" she half grumbled. "This one _is_ pretty good."

"No problem. I can take this offensive one off you then," he went to pluck it from her grasp with his long fingers.

"Hey! Not so fast! I… I might keep this one, too."

"Really?" his look was bemused.

"For Sting," she defended with a haughty sniff. "And, well, maybe Yaz."

His smile was quietly self satisfied. So… it _had_ been a job well done over this torturous summer; this recovery of their relationship, this safeguarding of their simpatico. He knew that mattered most, even more, perhaps, than winning her love. He couldn't promise that he would be quite so patient as he had indicated on his birthday, or that he wouldn't try everything in his arsenal to sway her. But to reach her, he had realised, as he fiddled thoughtfully with his signet ring, would be the end of a carefully judged marathon, not of a hasty, hapless sprint.

They listened to their tape, sharing his headphones, the rest of the way to the mainland; her head on his shoulder companionably, the breeze from the open windows and the music stirring their memories.

* * *

David, with an iron-willed resolution, rose at seven and undertook a determinedly productive two and a half hours of MCAT study, in between bites of breakfast, and twenty minutes of absurdly wasted time searching for his promised _X Files_ t shirt.

Coming downstairs shortly before ten am, he noted that his father had hauled every conceivable local and family history book onto the dining room table, had recovered several files of old newspaper clippings, and had thoughtfully supplied notepaper, index cards, several pens, a pack of highlighters and assorted back issues of the local newspaper.

"Well, cheers for that, Dad. I'm sure the local branch of Nerds Anonymous will be very grateful for your efforts."

A pair of more-than-usually-excited hazel eyes met his own, and nothing, it was evident, was going to dull their gleam today.

Rob Blythe flicked a glance over his son's attire, dark eyebrows rising bemusedly.

"Well, then, _you'll_ fit in nicely, by the looks of you."

David frowned, crossing his arms defensively. "It's a bit of an in-joke."

"I'll take your word for it." His father's accompanying grin was maddening.

* * *

Rob Blythe was clearly torn between enjoying the local delights with the delightful Tessa Ford and toiling through dusty historical records with her daughter. His expression was comically pained as he took his leave, apologising for not bringing anything down from the attic as yet and that she would be welcome to anything she might find up there herself, and cavalierly offering David's own services to this purpose.

When he finally headed off with the picnic basket-wielding Tessa, who had left a twin arrangement for them both, courtesy of their hotel, to enjoy here themselves at Ingleside, he and Anne stood either side of the dining table, chuckling in amusement as they surveyed an historical treasure trove.

"He really _does_ love all this!" Anne offered incredulously.

"That would be affirmative," David shook his head, his grin all fond exasperation.

"And you never caught the history bug yourself?" she questioned, her eyes great grey pools this morning, contemplating him with that wistful earnestness that threatened to derail his fast-futile hopes for at least three more hours of study today.

"Well…" he shrugged, hands deep in the pockets of his jeans, "when you grow up surrounded by something, it's either retreat or surrender… I guess I was always a little too practical for all the history stuff. A bit like my ma. I prefer to look forwards, not back. Dad was the one who was the dreamer."

"And _you're_ not the dreamer? Medicine and all?" Her wry smile was gentle.

He guffawed in surprise. "Well, yeah, you may be right about that. If I ever even _pass_ the MCAT there's just going to be years and years of – "

"No! That's not what I meant!" her interruption was agonised, and she even reached out a hand as if to physically stop his thoughts. "David, I just meant, well, that medicine has got to be the noblest dream of all, doesn't it? Tend the wounded? Heal the sick…?"

He blinked in surprise at her outburst. It was such a striking contrast to what Gillian had once said to him – or the _way_ she'd said those exact same words, only her pretty lips had been curled derisively, and her tone had been scathingly condescending, accusing him of having delusions of grandeur that could well outstrip his ability. _Or_ her patience.

They had another staring contest, he and Anne Ford; the kind where the air is sucked up and away, and the pocket of breath left remaining is still and thick and heavy and too warm.

David came round slowly to her side of the table, his eyes following the pink tinge to her pale cheeks that darkened by degrees as he neared her.

"Even if Keats pumped for poetry instead?" he queried, a little huskily.

She seemed to swallow carefully. "Even so."

* * *

Anne was acclimatising herself to the tightrope walk of being in this house again. It was indeed a high wire balancing act; concentrate on your balance; focus on what was in front of you; don't look around or too far to the horizon; take a breath.

 _Take a breath_. Well, fine, except when David Blythe was in the room.

David Blythe? Or _Kenneth Ford?_

 _Focus._

She took the notebook she herself had brought, delighting in the highlighters Rob had left – oh the joys of colour coding! – and took out her own pen, smooth and weighty and _perfect_ for this sort of serious endeavour.

 _Right._

She began with the family trees, perusing them with a careful eye, taking notes and a few snaps on her phone, through Rob Blythe had generously offered to have them photocopied for her. She started again, naturally, with the Fords. Kenneth Ford and Bertha Marilla Blythe – wow, the poor girl, saddled with those monikers! – married in August of 1919. A summer bride. Rilla Blythe had been… wow, only just twenty, the same as Princess Diana… fairly young, actually. Virtually a child bride.

 _I_ was a _child bride?_

Rilla had been married right after the war, to Kenneth who had been made a Captain; married, one would presume, from here at Ingleside; this very house. Coming down those stairs ready to be swept up into the arms of her young soldier…

Married before her older sisters, too. _That_ was sure to have been popular.

But what a romantic thought. She likely knew him before the war; had perhaps grown up knowing him, with the connection between the Blythes and the Fords close as it already was… had perhaps had a little crush on him, going back to the start of the war, when he was around twenty or twenty one and she was…

 _Fifteen._

Anne blew out a breath. _I was fifteen, being romanced by Great, Great Grandad Ford?_ That was _two_ years ago. Two years ago in Toronto she was in braces and squeezing lemon juice onto her freckles. She was going to music camp. She wasn't yet obsessing over boys. Or…er… _men._

She fiddled with her perfect pen; she tried very, very hard to imagine herself in a long dress delicately waving a lace hankerchief as a train full of fresh-scrubbed soldiers chugged away from her. She tried very hard to imagine one of them had David's dark curly hair and teasing smile.

It was perhaps more difficult to imagine than it should have been.

* * *

She became, inevitably, distracted by the Blythes. She tried not to think about the Blythe upstairs, even as she followed along with his family tree, reading his family's life story between the names and the repeats of names and the dates and the inter-marriages. James Matthew, Rilla's brother – _fine_ then _, be_ named for Captain Jim – who married a Meredith. Goodness, they _all_ married Merediths. This Jem Blythe did, and he and Rilla's sister Nan Blythe did… even David's father. She traced all the way down the line with a slim, pale finger, till she came to the name. _Melissa Una Meredith._ Rob had noted the day of her passing, in the tiny, beautiful, precise script he had used throughout his extensive charts; the same tiny script as for her own father. Had Rob's hand wavered at all? Had he needed to pause, to breathe, so as not to blot the page?

Her throat throbbed at the thought. And for the curly haired boy she had gifted to the world. Was there any of his mother in David? He looked like his father, tremendously so, even if his manner wasn't _quite_ the match for lovely, sweet, self effacing Rob Blythe. There was precious little that was _sweet_ about Gerald David, son and heir. Except… well, OK, the t shirt today was rather cute. And honestly, perhaps a little tight for him, distractingly so, particularly across the shoulders.

David was born in October. He would be 21 after the summer, but was currently three years older than she. She sniffed to herself. _Three_ years was certainly better than six or even _seven._

 _Focus._

Her pen flew across the page making her notes; her free-flowing, looping script.

Did Rilla write? Poems, stories? She must have done, for the ghost-girl to be conjuring all these interesting words and phrases that would come to her. And _names_ too. She had a feeling Rilla would have approved of Lady _Cordelia,_ for a start. Ah, Cordelia and Roy… Anne had caught up with their fictional reunion this morning, tucked up in bed, and it had been perfectly lovely and… deeply unsatisfying. She couldn't put her finger on it. Everything that had been meant to happen, as if preordained, certainly _did_ happen;declarations of love; a proposal; swooning; a more than acceptable amount of kissing. And it had all fallen flat somehow, as if the magic had been shaken out of it under that tree in the valley. So she had gone back to her phone, rereading her Facebook conversation with David of last night (this morning?) and grinned as she read, quite stupidly, glowing along with her screen as the day awakened outside her window.

Oh the puzzle of relationships and families and names. She thought of all the new names she had encountered this morning. _Una._ Now _that_ was a name. A Meredith name indeed, and she crossed back to the Meredith tree. Certainly David was proud to call himself a Blythe but he, amusingly, had Meredith blood in him twice over, through his paternal ancestor, the infamous _Jem_ who had married Faith Meredith; and through his mother Melissa too, who was descended from another Meredith branch; through a half-brother called Bruce. And he had a _Meredith_ name, too, in his _Gerald_ for Judge Jerry. Really, he had better not throw any more shade regarding names, that's for sure. Meanwhile, she could but only see one _David_ anywhere… at the very toppermost of the Blythe tree; there was a David Blythe, a doctor no less, from here in Glen St Mary, predating even a Gilbert Blythe at the head of the tree married to that first Anne.

Gilbert Blythe. Married to Anne.

 _Gilbert._

Her lips curled in smile around the name. It was terribly old fashioned but also rather endearing. And of course she had heard of it before; but as Gilbert Ford, her favourite ancestor; the blonde flying ace in the Second World War; her Grandad Tom's father. Not as Gilbert _Blythe…_ but there, see, Gilbert was Rilla's father… and she named her son after him. Well, that was lovely. And so… _a Blythe became a Ford…_

 _When the families intersect._

The phrasing heated her cheeks, as it had last night when Rob Blythe had first taken them through the overgrown forestof names and relationships.

She was back on the Ford family tree, looking at Gil Ford and his three children with Great Grandma Rose… their firstborn son Grandad Tom had another of those strange middle names you just didn't hear anymore. He was actually Thomas Carlyle.

 _Thomas Carlyle?_

Anne had read that somewhere. Not on the Ford tree, that was for sure. She scanned the Blythes, but couldn't find anything there. And then back to those Merediths – the family she hadn't even _heard_ of before yesterday. Climbing back and up… Gerald Meredith… Faith Meredith… Una Meredith… Thomas Carlyle Meredith. In brackets, as Rob Blythe had done for Jem and Jerry, was the name he was known for; Carl.

 _Grandad Tom had a Meredith name?_

That didn't make any sense.

She could have understood a Blythe name, because Gil Ford's mother was Rilla; also the family had spent summers on the Island right up to… well, her _own_ dad. At the house at Four Winds. So the Fords and the Blythes had always had that connection. But they had absolutely nothing to do with any Merediths. Fords weren't related to any Merediths… they didn't _know_ any Merediths…

Who on earth was Carl Meredith then?

Was he a Meredith flying ace whom Gil Ford had admired? Somewhere there would be something here… Rob Blythe had another full exercise book just of all the war service of all these young soldiers in both wars… The war was how Great Grandad Gil had _met_ Great Grandma Rose after all…

It was really all making her head hurt.

Fishing for the war notes of the thankfully, wonderfully meticulous Rob Blythe, she hadn't even heard his son come down the stairs, till that smooth voice with the edge of a smile floated across to her.

"Having fun yet?"

She looked up, startled, into those hazel eyes (where had the hazel eyes come from? she wondered errantly) and blushed, looking back down.

"I _thought_ I was…" she mumbled cryptically, a fetching little frown line, he noted, forming as a bridge between auburn brows.

"And what great conclusions have you drawn so far? Before we adjourn for lunch; I need some non-medical tidbit before my head explodes."

"Well…" she flashed in her general annoyance over the perverse nature of parents in naming children, "it seems for one you Blythes would be nothing without all these Merediths!"

He laughed warmly in surprised amusement, and it made her stomach flip.

"Well, that's exactly what my mother would have said!" David crossed to the table, long fingered hands (Blythe hands? Or Meredith?) gripping the edge of the dining chair opposite her. His laugh ebbed away, and she was left with the residue of his smile, and those eyes softening as he regarded her.

"You know, Anne Ford, I bet Ma would have really liked you."

* * *

They eat lunch outside on the verandah, appearing very absorbed in the distant waves speckled by swimmers, when really they are surreptitiously watching each other; eyes darting and hooded; hands brushing in the reaching for this bread roll, that slice of apple pie. It is companionable to sit here on the bench together, the sun slanting onto their faces, and to muse that yesterday… only yesterday…? she was reading under a tree, and he was, unknowingly, heading down the slope towards her.

He is browned and sure and strong; his fingers fascinate; his scar is a vivid white against the sun. His forearms seem threaded with iron. At home she is a girl surrounded by girls and meets the occasional, forgettable boy; he here is no boy. When she senses him gazing at her she feels she should turn from it but she can't help but draw back towards his look. And his _look_ … she hasn't learned the vocabulary for that yet. She deciphers the meaning as she puzzles on the intent.

Back inside, duty calls him; he trudges back up the stairs, heavier of tread than before, turning briefly back to her, as if having _more care to stay than will to go._ **

She tries not to imagine him up there in his room. One room of many rooms… Does he sit to study, disciplined at his desk? Does he flop on the floor, or mooch on the mattress? Does he tackle things methodically or is he sidetracked and scattergun?

She floats aimlessly about the house; a feather on the breeze; a nightingale flitting. She tries instead to conjure Rilla Blythe; stationed at the kitchen benchtop; reclining on the sofa; poised at the window looking out onto the grand sweep of grass and sea and sky. Did she peruse the books on the shelves as distant strangers or nodding acquaintances or old friends? The shelf at Ingleside now covers one entire long wall; half-ceiling high. She squeezes her eyes closed; she wants nothing superimposed over this, no hauntings of shelves and books as they were. Only here, now, and what is.

There is a method to the madness of the many books; not arranged alphabetically and certainly not modishly color-coded, but rather thematically or by subject. Some are nearly new and some are much older and some look like Noah smuggled them onto the Ark. There are children's books on the lower shelves, spines half chewed and much loved; moving upwards in age and shelf height to young adult; someone liked the bygone mysteries of _The Hardy Boys;_ another was obsessed with _Narnia;_ the Neverland of J.M. Barrie sits alongside the prairie dreams of Laura Ingalls Wilder and the inevitable omnipresence of _Harry Potter._ A teenaged Melissa Meredith perhaps carried over an extensive and well thumbed Virginia Andrews collection as improbable marriage dowry, alongside some later nursing texts and a penchant for the biographies of 1980's musicians. Rob Blythe's hand is seen in everything from memoirs and histories of both world wars to an extensive collection of dusty law tomes. A younger fantasy-loving David Blythe perhaps kept time with Tolkien; the would-be medical student has possibly discovered Oliver Sacks. There are citadels modern and classic; from McEwan and A.S. Byatt to Dickens and Dostoyevsky. Further up, just beyond her eyeline, are the volumes oldest of all; those _Little Women_ try to warm _Ethan Frome; Ivanhoe_ attempts to court _Persuasion; Pride and Prejudice_ nods politely to _Sherlock Holmes_ ; _Sense and Sensibility_ watches _Wuthering Heights_ agog; _Jane Eyre_ gazes with sympathy at _The Count of Monte Cristo; Frankenstein_ smiles wickedly at them all. ***

Her fingers trail over the spines, tracing a meandering path. She inhales deeply…

… _the shelves are crowded with perfumes, I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it…_ ****

She comes to the poetry section, and thrills to the very sight of it. Oh these Blythes must have been great readers in their day; educated and articulate, and not a little opinionated. Obviously the heavyweights are represented; Shakespeare's plays elsewhere and his sonnets here; Tennyson and Wordsworth and Longfellow and Keats; others of the Romantics; the Brownings, husband and wife; the Rossettis, brother and sister; Poe; Walter Scott; later names, too, and the heartbreaking poets of the Great War; Owen and Sassoon and Graves and Brooke. She had thought their own shelves in Toronto were impressive, but this was something else again… this was poetry and history intertwined; the stories of the readers indistinguishable from the stories they read; one informing the other… a genesis folding back onto itself.

 _Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?_ ****

Her fingers falter on a worn green spine. It is not known to her as so many of the others are.

Yet.

She takes it down; tests the weight of it; solid and heavy. The worn pages are soft and yielding to her fingers, and she turns them reverently. Her breath is loud in her ears… _the smoke of my own breath, Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers…_ ****

The air is still in the room, heavy and leaden; another too-warm day.

She turns randomly. Some pages are oft perused and unfold for her, as if flowers opening to the sun, as if they feel the memory of air on them… the swish of the petals and leaves stirring… and the whisper of the wind rushing through the reeds.

She swallows carefully. Her body feels static… _electric_ as the title of the poem. It hardly feels like a poem… it feels like a confession. It is thoughts without rhyme, like the stream-of-consciousness of her earlier writings; her dreaming-awake writing, channelling that other girl.

 _This_ is not the work of a girl.

' _The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them…'_ *****

' _And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead?'_ *****

An awful question. She frowns, ruminates, moves on, starting to inhale the words, unaware she is silently mouthing them in the attempt.

' _And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?'_ *****

She staggers momentarily at that; to see her secret thoughts given voice.

'… _the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face…it is in his limbs and joints also…'_ *****

Her eyes widen; she thinks errantly of David. She is always processing him as body parts; dismembering him with her gaze. Sometimes the whole of him is a little too much to take in all at once.

She scans the lines quickly, as if there is an incoming squall and she must stay ahead of it. There is a lot now about swimmers and labourers and farmers. She is about to close it and take down her Keats.

'… _you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang…'_ *****

'… _You would wish long and long to be with him…'_ *****

The unexpected blush catches her.

'… _you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other.'_ *****

She almost snaps it shut in alarm.

Gosh, what _was_ this?

Her cheeks flame, her fingers tingle; as if her senses have been slapped to attention.

She reads on. She turns the page.

She feels her eyes and mouth gape... she knows she is uncomprehending. Her breath hitches. She scans and gulps and reads again and thinks she comprehends.

 _'Mad filaments... ungovernable shoots...'_ *****

 _'...negligent falling hands... all diffused... mine too diffused...'_ *****

'Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb...'

 _'Loveflesh sw - '_ *****

"What have you got there?"

Her yelp would be comical, if her heart didn't need to start over. She is a marionette jerking up towards the strings. She nearly drops everything, including herself.

"David!" she gasps. "You… you nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"Sorry," he comes off the stairs, his smirk of course telling otherwise.

She stares at him dumbly. He is hair and eyes and…

"Anne- you look like I used to when Ma would catch me stealing cookies after supper," he chuckles softly, but then stops up short, as if remembering it really isn't wise of him to tease her, a guest in his house; a visiting fourth cousin.

But she is so far beyond and out the other side of caring if he teases her. Let him tease her and be diverted.

"So another one of your tomes? Which is it?"

She blinks rapidly, a prostrate mouse to his feline, who approaches with a stealthy grace.

 _One of YOUR tomes, rather,_ she thinks darkly.

"Oh, it's nothing," the reply shakes out of her uneasily, and she turns. She tries to shove the volume back on the shelf, anywhere on the shelf, but it is stubborn and refuses to go, to slot itself back in, to be forgotten again when it has been reclaimed.

"Anne - you don't have to put it back! You can read anything here, you know. Just take it. It's yours."

"No, really, that's OK."

"Hey! Seriously!" He comes to stand by her, and reads over her shoulder. _Leaves of Grass._ Walt Whitman."

"Do… do you know him?" she murmurs.

"Whitman? Um, sure. Robin Williams in _Dead Poet's Society._ 'I sound my almighty yawp' and all that." He looks a little pleased.

"Um… _'barbaric_ yawp'," she corrects, absently, her voice husky to her ears, as if her throat has taken up the very meaning of the word for its own.

"Right." He smiles down on her, trying to have her meet his eye. He has spent the last half hour in hopeless deliberation, study long abandoned, trying to work out what it _is_ about her. When she remains awkward and still, standing halfway between shelf and him, refusing to look at him, he takes the volume back off her in desperation; plucks it quickly with his long fingers. "Do you like him?"

She turns to him, finally, her eyes flashing incomprehensibly with something that might be uncertainty but hold secrets of something else. _Which 'him' was he referring to?_

"Oh, um, sure. I don't really know him. I was looking for something else, but..."

He begins to flick through, mild interest not for himself so much as for her.

" _David…_ " she does not know if it is a plea or a demand. All she can see is _'limbs and joints... and quivering.'_ ***** Her eyes widento saucers and her mouth drops open.

"Really, our parents will be back soon..." she makes a pass for the volume, grasping for the worn spine. "We'd better put it back".

He catches her hand to deflect her, lightly grasping her wrist. He knows advanced First Aid; he certainly knows how to take a pulse. _Hers_ flutters like a baby bird's, strumming manically. Her face is still flaming. He notes it and his hazel eyes narrow in concern, and he brushes his thumb inadvertently across the pulse beat; the pumping blood against vein. Her intake of breath is sharp, her pupils dilating till all he sees is not grey but charcoal; he is back in his room in an instant, to that moment last night, as she leaned against his wall and looked up at him as if… as if…

"You'd better not do that…" his voice is low and sounds as if he has been swallowing gravel.

"Do what?" she squeaks.

"Look at me like that, Anne."

"Like what?"

"Like you want me to kiss you."

There. _There._

He realises, his own pulse beat too late, that in trying to define the moment he has ruined it. In attempting to make sense of it – because _none_ of this makes any sense – he has prevented the very thing he tried to name from happening at all. His teeth clench at his own unwitting self sabotage as she laughs uneasily, the shutters coming down.

"Your ego is… is… really extraordinary, David Blythe!" she splutters, understandably enough.

"That may be, Anne Ford," he acknowledges on a disappointed breath. "But it doesn't mean I'm wrong."

She has control of herself again now; she pushes past him, away from the shelf, certainly away from _him,_ and in order to not have her barrel into his chest he steps back awkwardly, the half-opened Whitman he is cradling under the crook of his arm fluttering open, and a slim folded page slides out and away; up and airborne on an invisible current, and then gliding to rest on the polished floorboards between their feet.

They draw their eyes away from one another to stare down at it; reach together for it, automatically, though his long arms and long fingers have the clear advantage.

 _A letter._

He holds it in his hand, and then holds her gaze, apology in the gesture, as he offers it to her.

* * *

18 May 1919

Paris

Dear Kit,

You know that I am not much of a one for words, but there is so much I would say to you.

I wish I did not have to. I wish I were home right now and we could just sit next to one another among the sweet flag by the water and not be required to put thoughts into words. Sometimes I think everything would be alright if only we could sit together like that again. But then I think of coming home, of seeing you every day and knowing that we can never, ever have what our siblings have. Do you think I want to sit next to you at wedding after wedding after wedding? I do not.

It is too hard. I can't come home knowing that you can never really be mine. Would you, if such a thing were possible? After what you said to me the last time I saw you, I thought you would. But what could that ever mean for us? Paris was everything, but a few perfect days are not a lifetime.  
It's likely I'll be demobilized in a few weeks. And then what? Home to the Glen? To see you every day — so near and still so hopelessly impossible? To have every busybody drooling over my medals and trying to make a suitable match for me? To stand up beside you someday and hold my peace while you marry someone else? I can't even bear the thought, let alone the reality.

Things will be better for both of us if I don't come home at all. You can stay near your family and lead a normal life. Get married. Have a family. You'll be good at all that. But I don't want to watch you do it. This way, you'll never have to worry about prison or Hell or any of it. You can just rest and be safe and I won't put you in any more danger. I know what you said. I won't ever forget it. But things will be better for you if just forget about me.

There was a moment in November when I knew I was going to die. Not someday; in a minute. And I wasn't scared at all. Just relieved. It would have solved everything, if only I had let it. But I woke up in the hospital to find it was all still an unresolvable mess, and wishing I had died as I should have.  
You'll be safe, that's the main thing. It's no use talking of my family - they'll get on just fine without me.

I'm sorry. I never spent much time imagining the future. It hardly seemed worthwhile. Now I must, and if this is the new world, there isn't much in it for us, is there? If we can't be together, I don't want to be anywhere near you. For both our sakes.

All my love forever,  
Shirley ******

* * *

They measure one another for several moments. The heightened heat still lingers, as they sit together at the table, the letter, concession to joint possession, lying opened between them, and the Whitman likewise beside it. They have read the letter and read it again; David props up his face with a long hand, as if needing to further support himself.

"Wow." The word is not enough and yet all either of them could possibly muster.

"Wow," Anne agrees, nodding dazedly.

"You need to come over more often," he tries to joke. "Though I'm scared as to what you'll uncover in our attic now."

She smiles sheepishly.

"This is quite… I mean it's quite a letter. I don't know that you'd even call it a love letter. I don't know _what_ you'd call this…"

"I think you'd call it a _goodbye_ ," she offers quietly.

He picks it up carefully; scans it again. Anne notes how the letter has been safeguarded; treasured; how the page is worn and worn again, how the creases of the folds bite deeply into the page; how it is slightly discoloured as if oft perused; how _all my love forever_ bleeds from the last line; and also _It is too hard…_ and _I'm sorry._

"OK," he determines. "So this _Shirley_ was our Blythe unfortunate with the girl's name."

Anne nods, drawing the Blythe family tree towards them, indicating with her finger. "It was actually his mother Anne's maiden name, though I agree completely it was not the best call they could have made. He was one of the seven siblings. You know, Mr Jem-named-for-Captain-Jim, who is _your_ ancestor, and then the youngest daughter, Rilla, who is mine."

"Ah, yes. The _intersection_ ," he notes, just to see if it elicits that same reaction. It does, and he bites down on his smile.

She steadfastly ignores this.

"So this Shirley Blythe is in Paris," she muses. "It's after the war, but he's still stuck there. Was that usual? Didn't they try to get all the troops home as quickly as possible?"

"I don't know… Europe was in a compete mess, though. Perhaps they had to stagger them returning?"

"Maybe."

She reads back over the letter again, her eyes blurring.

"Did Shirley ever come back here to the Glen? Did he ever see her again? It sounds like he loves her _so_ much. Was she married already? Was she French even? Did they meet in Paris? And what is _Kit_ short for anyway? Is it Katherine or Katie or Katrina or Kitty or…."

"Whoa! I know as much as you, Anne. Probably, embarrassingly, even less, considering you spent the morning going over all the family trees. I'll just ring my dad. Simple."

He fishes out his phone; thinks about a text but then rings instead. It rings out and goes to message bank, leaving his number but not allowing a voicemail.

"No answer?"

He shrugs. "If they are down by the beach anywhere, reception can get a little rough. I'll try in ten minutes."

"OK. Thank you."

They both gaze upon the letter once more, as if it is a magnetic force drawing them; a vortex into which they could disappear.

"She wasn't married," David asserts. "Shirley says if he doesn't come back then she can _'lead a normal life. Get married. Have a family of your own. You'll be good at all that._ ' And _he_ wasn't married either. He talks of being worried about all those single ladies. Which makes me think maybe she was a close relative, or engaged to a close relative, and that's why they couldn't be together." There is a hint of humour to his conjecture. "We _do_ tend to do that in our family."

She gives him a mock glare but can't quite help her smirk.

"He talks of their _siblings_ though – his _and_ hers – which makes me think _different_ families," Anne demurs. "But they absolutely knew each other."

"Everyone in the Glen has always known each other," he remarks dryly.

"He tried to … _kill_ himself … David," she observes, her voice very low, her eyes fixed on the strong, determined, neat script. "He thought it would be better – easier – for everyone if he was out of the way. If he ceased to exist."

His heart is in his mouth as he regards her worriedly, unsure how blurred the lines and circumstances are for her. He reaches for her hand without thinking, his heart finger clasping her palm.

"He thought he might _allow_ himself to die. There's a difference. But he _lived_ , Anne," he reassures, leaning in, his breath close to her ear, so close that it vibrates and hums. "Look here – _'at the last minute I panicked and fought to pull out of the dive'._ He turned it around. He… wait…" David leans over to the letter, still with hold of her hand. "He was a pilot. In the war. He talks about _his plane._ He wasn't infantry at all. Perhaps that's even how he met her, and he begs her to go back to the Glen for her own safety, or…"

She smiles at his flight of fancy; beginning to concoct an entirely romantic backstory for one Shirley Blythe, pilot in the First World War. And then she falters.

"But he never married. He never ended up with her."

He tries not to notice how she surreptitiously wipes a tear.

"We don't know that for sure, Anne. Maybe they stayed lifelong friends, though. Or maybe they had…er… some kind of an _understanding_."

She looks at him curiously, her brows drawing together. "An understanding?"

He has to check that she's not baiting him. He is a little gobsmacked to find her genuinely wondering.

"Ah, well, you know. A _friends with benefits_ kind of thing."

She laughs a little, and not at all coquettishly. "A _what?_ "

 _Oh Christ._ His cheeks flush slightly. He feels he is corrupting a minor.

"Ah, well, that they were friends but… occasionally slept together. No strings."

She watches the slow dawn of her comprehension rise in her reddening cheeks and widening grey eyes. She can parry and lunge with the best of them, but for all her living in the big city she is not quite such a worldly seventeen as she likes to believe, or have others do.

"Oh. _Right_. Sure." She withdraws her hand and flicks her red hair back imperiously.

She is possibly the most adorable creature he has ever encountered in his life.

"Although I _hardly_ think that's going to happen in Glen St Mary in 1919," she huffs.

He allows her this riposte, hiding his chuckle in a clearing of his throat.

"Well, we're not getting anywhere. I'll ring my dad again."

"I guess I can ring my mom, too. Just to check in with her."

David encounters the same result as before, and glances at the time; nearly 3pm. Surely more than long enough for a picnic by the shore.

"I can't get anything!" Anne's face shows her confusion. "I think her phone is turned off! Or maybe the battery has died."

David's dark brows fly upwards. He contemplates; he remembers that late night call; of Tessa's light, flirtatious laugh; of his father's look this morning, hazel eyes aglow.

"What are you doing?" he queries as she begins to dial another number.

"I'm just going to phone the hotel. See if – "

"No, Anne! Just wait a while!" He has a restraining hand on her arm.

"But what if something's happened? Or if – "

"I am pretty sure they are both OK." He tries to convey something with his stare. "Really, _more_ than OK."

He leaves her to contemplate this. He reads in her expression the swift passage, from disbelief to denial.

"But… but surely…?" she splutters. "You're not saying that… that they…? They wouldn't… would they…?"

He shrugs his shoulders, and tries to soften the realisation with his tone. "All I'm saying is they could well be sticking to the script. It fits the timeline. This _is_ their Day Two, after all."

She expels a very embarrassed, affronted breath, but is learning to safeguard her composure. She takes a minute to fiddle absently with her phone.

"Well, then…" she murmurs, with a tiny glimmer of her old arch feistiness. "I guess we have _plenty_ of time for that attic of yours now."

He grins at her, though his pulse lurches queerly.

 _Please don't make me want to kiss you, Anne Ford…_ he groans silently to himself.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

My chapter title is from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poem _'Past and Future'_ but is also quoted in Sonnet 42 of _'Sonnets from the Portuguese'_ ; possibly her most famous cycle of work.

*The 1980's Mix Tape was a deliberately chosen collection of songs; a modern playlist not downloaded in seconds but taped off the radio or through the miraculous technology of a double cassette recorder. It took hours upon painstaking hours to compile, and thus was the ultimate expression of friendship and love. Rob Blythe's song choices (both genuine and not) are faithfully taken from the Canadian Music Chart of 1986, with a few of my own favourites interspersed. Most favourite of all is Yazoo's 'Only You'; although released by a British duo (known as Yaz in North America) it charted at Number 67 on the US Billboard Top 100 and 38 on the Adult Contemporary Chart – close enough for it to register in Canada I should think, particularly when their first single was a club hit. It was used very lovingly in the British version of _The Office,_ when during the Christmas episode Dawn comes back for Tim, which I believe is a scene that would have pleased Rob and Melissa immensely.

**William Shakespeare _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 3 Sc 5)

***for further understanding and appreciation of these last references please see _elizasky's_ final chapter of _'Glen Notes (1907-1914)'; 'Felicity so Unmixed'._

**** all from Walt Whitman _'Song of Myself' (Section 2)_ from _Leaves of Grass_ (first published 1855; these references from the final edition from 1892)

*****Walt Whitman _I Sing the Body Electric', Leaves of Grass_ (1892)

******Shirley's letter to Kit; from _elizasky's 'Dispatches'_ Chapter 52: _'Thoughts into Words'._ Reprinted here and referenced with her kind permission.


	6. Since this was written and needs must be

_With apologies for another Betwixt' chapter for any of the generous (and patient!) readers and reviewers of 'The Land of Heart's Desire'._

 _In what has been a difficult week personally, with the passing of a dear friend, here is refuge and solace in these stories and in this community._

 _I thank each and every one of you, reviewers and readers alike, and particularly my dedicated long-term and unfailingly supportive reviewers. I am still very behind in paying_

 _forward your_ _multitude kindnesses, and I apologise sincerely. Thank you also to my fabulous beta reader who has assisted me again in helping to drag this over the line!_

 _I thank everyone too so very much, in reviews, reads and PM's, who was so supportive of my first M effort x_

My friend would have been so supportive of these endeavours; she would have been the first to log on and follow, and would have been her very own cheer section.

To my everlasting regret I was too shy in telling her and then too late to be able to.

So this is to my lovely Ms C, who loved to read, who loved to discuss, who loved a good cry over a good story, but who also loved a happy ending xxx

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

' _ **Since this was written and needs must be'**_

* * *

Their industrious exploration of the attic at Ingleside has unearthed a curious mix of both trash and treasure; promising photographs they pile reverently for perusal downstairs; assorted letters, invitations and correspondence and a few more mildly hysterical old local newspaper editions; some medical ledgers; a collection of mouldering exercise books featuring little stories and poems; several old-style handwritten recipe books; a diary of one _Bertha Marilla Blythe_ of indeterminate age Anne leaps upon with initial alacrity that soon settles into a troubled wariness; endless church circulars; an inordinate series of bills and receipts; more books and school readers to fill another wall-to-wall shelf downstairs; and piles and piles of papers that threaten to disintegrate as soon as they look in their direction.

"There's nothing here," Anne announces despondently, having only half-heartedly looked into the last box and then sat back on her heels, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. "Nothing on Shirley Blythe, apart from the details your dad wrote about his war service downstairs. And certainly nothing that refers to _Kit_."

David pulls himself up to his full height, almost brushing the crossbeams of the attic with his curls grown wild and wayward in the heat, and places dusty hands on slim hips.

"We probably wouldn't ever find anything anyway. It's not as if there's going to be a neon sign here proclaiming the way to the details of forbidden lovers from last century. That sort of thing isn't usually advertised in _Glen Notes._ "

"You think… they were already lovers?" Anne questions, perturbed frown line in place, and David inwardly groans to himself for possibly the twenty fifth time.

He fears there has already been far too much talk about _sex_ today as it is. _And_ kissing. His father and her mother he can currently not bear to think about. Gillian's summer thus far, or whatever part of it he has reluctantly and stupidly clicked on when checking Facebook and Instagram, seems to consist of her posing provocatively with huge swathes of friends in a series of increasingly skimpy clothing. Before they had come up to the attic Anne had gone to the bathroom and he had idly checked the Whitman for any more clandestine letters and had thumbed, incredulous, through a few nigh pornographic poems, and now can't get some choice phrases such as _'Singing the muscular urge and the blending…'_ or _'the hungry gnaw that eats me night and day'_ * out of his beleaguered, frazzled, hormonal brain. Let alone which similar section Anne had possibly been reading when he had come downstairs to see her jump like a startled rabbit. And now that he has even _voiced_ thoughts about kissing Anne there seems to be nothing else he can contemplate when looking at her, particularly when the stifling, still air up here has caused her thin cotton dress to form to her slim body in a way that is possibly illegal in some parts of the world.

He lets out a breath that is in every way a frustrated comment on his present circumstances.

"I think…" he tries to tread carefully, "that they had been through a war. I don't know if they thought they might even meet up at the end of it- I don't think Shirley thought that, anyway. That he would even _survive_ it. And he very nearly didn't. So perhaps they had to make the most of what little time they had…" He is aware of the irony concerning their parents, but it remains unexpressed. He is even, further, aware that he has known this girl for a day and now hardly knows what the summer might be like for him without her and certainly would rather not find out. How long are they even here for? In the Glen, let alone on the Island? He feels the pressure on his chest at the thought of not seeing her, and his fractiousness at being indoors all day is heightened by the mild absurdity of them wasting what remains of this glorious afternoon spent instead in sorting through one hundred year old heirlooms in his attic.

Anne's look is thoughtful now, if not pensive; the mystery really matters to her, he is fast realising, and he would do anything to help solve it for her but they cannot ring his father and they have no other leads. Flight Commander Shirley Blythe was a brave and highly decorated pilot who would indeed have come back from the war to encounter every fawning female between the ages of fifteen and fifty; David can't imagine the torture of enduring that, knowing he could never have the one he really loved. It seemed as if Kit loved him in return… did societal pressures force her into a marriage, as Shirley almost wills? Did she fill up her own family tree with children, and her children's children, whilst the image of Shirley Blythe dangles on their Blythe tree downstairs; alone; cast adrift? And what of all that talk of _prison_ and _Hell?_ Did Shirley mean in terms of adultery, then or in the future?

The questions are pointless, now, at any rate.

"Let's take anything useful downstairs," he finally determines, and they clamber down with a vastly reduced number of boxes, accompanied by the disconcerting tang of mildew, dust and sweat, which seems to cling to them.

"Will your dad mind all this stuff being down here?"

"Hardly. You just watch him try to resist going through it himself."

She smiles and glances down at the letter, still resting on the table; temptation or taunt? It is halfway to six pm and he is not only filthy but famished and not a little fed up. Should he suggest dinner out somewhere? Is that too forward? Or order in pizzas? Go out and catch a movie? All of those things have _date_ stamped all over them, and he is unsure how that knowledge would be received, and even if he wants that to be his intention. But he must suggest _something._ Something where they weren't fourth cousins on the family tree, or even sleuths trying to puzzle out a great family secret. But just a guy and a girl.

"Anne, I…"

He is interrupted by the ringtone on his phone. He tries to answer it before she catches on but her surprised smile shows that she recognises the tune.

"Anne.. I had better get this. Excuse me."

It is Max, and as his excitable spiel starts to unwind like a spinning top revolving, it is all David can do to not reach down the phone and kiss him.

" _That sounds great. We'll be there. See you around eight."_

" _Dave? We're? What the?"_

" _Later!_ " he laughs despite himself.

As he turns back to her she is all smiling grey eyes wide on him.

"' _Nature Boy'?"_ she asks.

He blushes faintly. "You like Bowie?"

"I guess so… I don't really know a lot of his stuff. But my mom _really_ likes Nat King Cole. He did _Nature Boy_ first, actually."

"Oh. Right."

"But _you_ like David Bowie?"

"Well, sure…" he hedges, thinking that, yet again, he is gabbling confessions to her, like a stream overflowing the riverbank, when, really, he confides in very few. But she seems to be a truth serum to him.

"My ma was the real Bowie fan…" he explains. "During her cancer treatment at one stage I was home from Redmond, and her phone died and I gave her mine for a few days… we didn't want her to be without a way to contact us if she was too weak to get to the landline… Anyway, she changes my ringtone _and_ half my settings. Posts one or two _insane_ things on Facebook posing as me… and, well, when I realised what she had done… well, I couldn't change the Bowie. It was one of her favourite songs. I think it reminded her a bit of Dad…"

Anne is giving him that _look_ of hers… soft and knowing and lovely, and it makes his throat throb.

"That's a very sweet story."

"Yeah, well… my ma was like that. Pretty irreverent. And I think she completely named me _David_ because of Bowie, you know."

Anne's laugh is warm. "There _was_ a David Blythe, though… right at the very top of the tree. A doctor, too, here in Glen St Mary."

"Yes, I know… Dad _thinks_ that's whom I'm named after."

"OK. Let him have that."

"Yeah, guess so." His sad smile flashes.

They stand awkwardly. He glances inadvertently at the copy of Whitman on the table and her eyes follow his gesture, and when hazel flashes back to grey the green shines very bright against the new tint to her cheeks and he _knows_ she might have read some choice phrases herself.

' _The mystic deliria, the madness amorous…'_ *

 _Christ._

"Ah… that was my mate Max on the phone," David offers instead. "Also my, er, cousin. _First_ cousin that is, so no relation of _yours,_ and no need to look anything up on any tree. Max Meredith. Ma's brother's son."

Anne smiles hugely. "Michael Meredith had a _Max?_ "

"Yeah. Sort of like the _Kardashians._ There's Max; he's close to me in age and in the middle. He has an older sister Megan and a younger sister, ah, Madison, but mostly we call her Maddie."

Anne is still grinning. "Far be it for me to throw some shade at a little alliteration."

" _Exactly._ "

David thrusts his hands into his pockets. "So I was wondering if you might want to meet them? Max and Maddie that is. Meg is off with her boyfriend down in New England, I think. They met at Redmond and have been together forever. But there's a house party on at the place of another of our friends, and the others will be there."

It was a casual enough invitation to his ears; casual enough for a distant relative he only met yesterday. Perhaps there was something in his tone that gave the words more meaning; there was definitely nothing casual about her response.

"Oh… that's… wow. That sounds really, um, fun. It would be nice to meet some of your Merediths… but I…"

"Hey, Anne," he holds up his hands in surrender. "No pressure! Really. You've probably met all the assorted townsfolk you _want_ to meet in twenty-four hours…"

"No! that's not it! I just… I look a mess. I'm covered in dust. I'm not fit to be seen and I… I can't go back to change."

Her face has reddened appropriately, and he shoves his hands back into his pockets yet again, not trusting they won't reach to wipe that smudge on her cheek and declare her a little perfect as she is.

"Well, I'm _absolutely_ needing a shower or I won't be fit to be seen either, I can tell you that much. You could sponge out your dress and I can shove it in the dryer while you have a shower yourself. We have three showers in this house so we're pretty covered. I believe you've seen _one_ of them already…" he grins. "I'll order us a pizza and then we'll head out around eight. We can text the parents to let them know, and I can drop you back to the hotel… well… whenever."

There. Perfectly casual.

She gnaws her bottom lip. "Do you have a hair dryer? It's just that my hair goes a bit mad if I don't dry it properly. _No_ one is wanting to see _that._ "

He bites back another grin. So there was a slight curl situation happening for _her,_ too. _He_ wouldn't mind seeing that, truth be known, but he is trying to _encourage_ her to come, not have her screaming for the hills.

"Well, _personally…_ " he smiles wryly, raking his long fingers through his own hair, "I find that excess hot air on my follicles is somewhat counter productive to the desired result. But I'm sure I can find Ma's old one for you."

* * *

He waits downstairs for her and tidies halfheartedly. His earlier text to his father explaining their whereabouts tonight remains unanswered, and he rolls his eyes. They have followed his plan to the letter; he feels human again and boyishly excited to be escaping the house; he does not want to think that this feeling has anything to do with _her._ By mutual decree they are going to leave the letter safeguarded in the Whitman and tucked back on the shelf, till such time as they can both sit down with his father and obtain some answers. So he is looking over the letter one more time, thinking what _he_ would have done if he was bereft Shirley Blythe, loving someone so much he feels the best way to show this is to let them go… that love, for _him_ , was _'feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!'_ **

 _That is not what it is?_

Something startles those hazel eyes wide.

 _Oh God. You're kidding._

He reads the lines again and again, and then the entire thing, again. But it is there; hidden between the lines; submerged just beneath the waves and yet proclaimed as brightly as if a flare across the water.

' _To stand up beside you someday and hold my peace while you marry someone else? I can't even bear the thought, let alone the reality.'_ ***

 _To stand up beside you._ At your wedding. To someone else.

 _To stand up beside you someday_ is what a friend, a best male friend, does when a guy is getting married.

It is what a _Best Man_ does when his best friend gets married.

Was it possible for a _woman_ to be a Best Man? A _Best Woman?_ A _Best Mate?_ It happened now, of course. But he didn't need to consult his father to know it wouldn't have happened in 1919.

So then _Kit_ was a… _man?_

And Shirley Blythe was … _gay?_

 _Jesus._

And now he is scanning back over the lines… of the tortured proclamations made clear; of the love and longing and hopelessness made understood…

' _It is too hard. I can't come home knowing that you can never really be mine. Would you, if such a thing were possible?'_ ***

' _To see you every day - so near and still so hopeless?'_ ***

' _To stand up beside you someday and hold my peace while you marry someone else?'_ ***

' _This way, no one will ever find out and you'll never have to worry about prison or Hell or any of it ever again.'_ ***

 _Oh, Jesus…_ he breathes. What were the homosexuality laws last century? Archaic; that's all he knew. Hard labour. Oscar Wilde and later, people like Alan Turing. _Jesus._ Two gay blokes in the Glen after the first war. _Jesus._

Shirley Blythe, dangling alone on the family tree.

' _I'm sorry… if this is the new world, there isn't much in it for us, is there?'_ ***

David expels the breath he has been holding. Poor, poor Shirley Blythe. Poor Kit. He fought a war and helped defend the Empire and nearly died and yet they would still throw him in jail for loving a man.

David has friends who are gay; at Redmond, certainly. Probably here at school too, though if they were they had still kept that to themselves. He has even carefully and considerately extracted himself from a few same gender _propositions_ over the years; his looks and demeanour have always attracted a little notice, from either sex it would seem… Suddenly his own world is looking much rosier; dare he say it, _easier_. He can handle the MCAT. He can share stories of his mother. He can cope with seeing a few photos of an old girlfriend. He can certainly worry less about his not-so-lonely father. He can go to a house party with his fourth cousin and not have it mean anything or have it mean everything and the world will keep revolving. He can look at Anne Ford and think about kissing her.

 _Oh God… Anne._

Anne would freak out about this. Anne would march them back up to the attic and bury them in a fruitless search for not a Katherine but perhaps a Christopher… and they would never get out of here. And they would never cozy up on a couch tonight together or have a slow dance to some song together or hold hands together or stare out at the sea together or do all the things that Shirley Blythe and Kit could never do.

He would show her, tell her, tomorrow. The past could wait till then.

And if he is wavering, she makes the decision for him; he is folding the letter back up; he is shoving it carefully into an unseen page in the Whitman and then back to its place on the shelf as she descends the stairs; fresh as a daisy and pretty as a peony and smelling newly of lilies.

He swallows carefully.

"So, ready for an adventure to Four Winds, Anne Ford?" he greets her.

"Four Winds?"

My mate doesn't live in the Glen. He's in Four Winds. Home to your summer house and a stone's throw from the lighthouse too. If you are _very_ good I'll even show you the infamous home of Captain Jim your family saved. As long as you don't charge me admission."

He catches her scowl which may be Ford but is also a little Blythe, and deftly dodges her thwack on the arm. He knows her smile as they head off isn't nearly as affronted as she tries to make it. And when he looks down on her intently those grey eyes that are very Ford but perhaps something else again look back to him, and he feels that even their mutual great great Uncle Shirley couldn't help, in this moment, being a little pleased for them.

* * *

Anne feels the warm, reassuring pressure of his wide hand at the small of her back steering her through the crush of the crowd; people either side of the Four Winds harbour obviously don't see many parties or else this Jake MacAllister is an uncommonly accomplished host. Everywhere there seems to be grinning and good cheer, and a fair percentage of this is directed at David, who is frequently waylaid by fellow locals sharing excited greetings, much in the way of groupies at a rock concert. Anne can't decide if this annoys her or not; whether she is pleased to be a satellite within orbit of his popularity or whether his reflected sunlight is too piercing for her senses and her own ego.

Soon these musings won't matter; David indicates a lookalike boy and girl with black hair and arresting dark blue eyes, and there is a delighted squeal from the girl and a very familiar grin from her comrade.

"We thought you weren't going to make it, you dog!" the girl hugs him enthusiastically. "We haven't heard from you for _days!_ "

"I'm sure you've survived, Mads," he deadpans, turning to fist-pump the guy.

"Anne, these are my cousins, Maddy and Max. Guys, this is my friend Anne from Toronto."

Two pairs of blue eyes turn to regard her interestedly, though Max Meredith is the first to recover himself, offering a likewise large, tanned hand.

"Hi, Anne. Nice to meet you."

"And you, Max."

"Hi, I'm Maddie!" the girl adds unnecessarily but with immediate good humour and a winning smile. "How do you know David?"

"We met yesterday," he interrupts dryly. "She was trying to steal my tree in the Valley."

Anne turns to him with an arched brow and grey eyes flashing green, knowing his teasing is a test.

"My mom and I are holidaying on the Island," she explains dutifully, with her own wide smile. "I have relatives from here, though that was ages and ages ago. Although it turns out I'm distantly related to David, though I hope you won't hold it against me."

Max's laugh is quick and delighted, and David grins appreciatively beside her.

"Well, Anne, we're _all_ related to David, so only sympathy for you there. Though if you're from Toronto it means you're not related to _us,_ so better and better."

Max Meredith gives a smile that could be silky if his twinkling eyes didn't betray him, and his sister links her arm companionably through Anne's and directs them towards the kitchen for some drinks.

"Word is about your Dad has made a new _friend_ as well…" Anne hears Max begin speculatively behind them.

"Yes, and _that_ would be _Anne's mom_ ," David replies, and she can only imagine the warning glare he gives to his cousin on her behalf, but by the time she meets his eyes again he winks at her, and that bird in her belly begins to flutter again.

David stays close to her all evening, ensuring her underage-ness is not tarnished by any actual alcohol passing her lips, which would be condescending in the extreme only he chivalrously sticks to soda himself, and only relinquishes her when Maddie whispers all the gossip to her regarding any eligible locals, dragging her off to introduce her to some of them, or Max the would-be musician pulls her up from the couch they have all sunk into for an impromptu air guitar challenge.

"So… having fun yet?" David shouts into her ear above the music, cheekily invoking his greeting earlier in the day.

"Of course!"

"Want to ditch and go see some local attractions?"

She is torn, thinking of the surprisingly good time she is having in the company of those whom, three days ago, she did not expect to tolerate, all so different from her pretentious Toronto crowd. And then she is unable to resist the gleam in his hazel eyes, which is part challenge and part promise.

The indecision does not last very long.

"Sure!" she gulps.

David makes their apologies, giving garbled half truths about big sightseeing in store and needing to get her back to her hotel, whilst Max waves from the corner where he is engaged in earnest talk with another friend and Maddie keys her number into Anne's phone with a firm command to have her ring first thing tomorrow so they can arrange their own _girl-friendly_ sightseeing. And then David is waving to Jake their goodbyes, and Anne pretends she doesn't see the host's grinning _thumbs up_ on her periphery, and they are out the door and down the road and then there is nothing before them but a smattering of houses and the occasional streetlight and the red sandstone cliffs and the dark and the night and the sea.

* * *

"It's not that far to walk to the light, if you're up for it," David offers with a careful casualness, to Anne's ears at least.

"Oh, no, I'd love to… it seems a travesty I have been here _three_ whole days and not seen it yet," she laughs easily.

"Has it only been three days? It feels like forever."

"Oh _, thanks_!"

"In a _good_ way, of course!" he backpedals quickly. "I only mean that… well, you seem to _belong_ here." The last is offered with a darting look back to her and a voice that has lowered as if heading underground.

Anne can make no adequate reply, and is relieved the night has swallowed her blush.

"Ah… thank you for taking me to the party…" she offers herself, a little desperately.

"Thank you for coming."

"Well, thank _you_ for thinking of… _argh!_ " her words are lost in her surprise as her foot slides on the slippery red gravel heading down the hill and she nearly ends up greeting the road with her posterior, but for David's quick reflexes as he grabs her arms before she goes down.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," she breathes heavily. "Um… thanks. Stupid ankle…"

"Have you hurt it?"

"No. It just is a little weak, that's all. Sometimes it just throbs for no reason, as if I've broken it and can't remember."

"Have you?"

"No – and _that's_ the stupid part. I can't remember doing anything to it at all."

He grins, relinquishing his hold of her arms.

"We're a bit of a pair, aren't we, Anne Ford? Your ankle and my scar?"

She laughs more uneasily now, still a little embarrassed. "Practically the walking wounded."

"Well, so that you won't live up to _that_ part… _here."_ He reaches for her hand and takes it securely in his own, his brown hand dwarfing hers, and the warmth shoots through her, chasing along her veins and hurtling headlong towards her heart. "I'll steady you."

Her response is strangled in her throat; infact it is caught somewhere in her chest. Yet other body parts would answer him more succinctly; her fingers thread with his as of their own accord and his hold tightens ever so slightly.

They resume walking, more slowly now, enough for her to properly take in the vista dipping down before them.

She can feel him watching her reactions carefully.

"It gets me every time."

Anne nods. "It feels wilder here." Like _'the night winds are beginning their wild dances'_ **** she thinks, but does not say. "Less tamed and more… more… _unknown_ and unknowable. It's so breathtaking." She doesn't see her grey eyes large and shining in her pale face.

"Yes. It is." His voice floating across to her is low and throaty… practically a growl.

The cool breeze off the ocean stirs her hair, and ruffles his own, and then he stops and turns her.

"Do you see that little white house up there? The one with the light on?"

She squints in the gloom. "Yes, I think so."

"There's your House of Dreams, Anne."

"Pardon?" she smiles confusedly.

"Oh. Um, that's just what we call it, in our family. Your summer house. We have insane names for local things that have been passed down. The valley you came to yesterday has always been known as Rainbow Valley, for instance. And the summer house is the House of Dreams. Don't ask me to explain this whimsical stuff," he grins good naturedly.

Anne stares up reverently, to _'the little white house nestled against a big, whispering fir-wood,'_ *****looking for all the world like a ' _creamy sea-shell stranded on the harbour shore.'_ ****"The _House of Dreams…_ " she breathes. "Do you think it _was,_ for the people who have lived there?"

She thinks of the Fords, down through the years, beginning with Owen and Leslie. She thinks of Owen's grandfather The Schoolmaster, who built it for his bride, when he only had love and faith and haunted dreams to sustain him.

David chuckles at her earnestness. "Who knows? I guess it would have to be, with _those_ views. Though I think your grandad's real estate agent has marketed it more along the lines of _Little Jewel in the Crown of the Gulf._ "

Her look back to him is duly horrified, and he laughs delightedly.

"Who do you think named it? John Selywn and Persis?"

He shrugs broad shoulders. "Possibly. That would make sense."

She knows she is a little transfixed, but can't pull away.

David follows her gaze back up to the snug white house and then looks back to her, smiling fondly.

"C'mon, Anne Ford…" he tugs at her hand still in his. "I vow to get you to your House of Dreams. But in the meantime, _To the Lighthouse._ "

* * *

The Four Winds light, mystical and magical in her mind's eye, is both as magnificent as she has imagined and yet as startlingly ordinary as she has feared. It gleams starkly white with its darker trim; a monolith rising out of _the spur of sandstone cliff;_ ****** a sentinel to a seafaring history gone but not yet forgotten. Her family has seen to that; for the first time she is truly proud of their efforts, properly now understanding them herself, however misinterpreted and maligned by others; her grandfather Tom and her father Alex; Fords safeguarding a legacy that they helped write so that everyone could remember.

They walk around the broad base, her hand still in his, and stare out to the _silvery sand shore of the bar,_ and the other side of the channel with its _long, curving beach of red cliffs, rising steeply from the pebbled coves. It was a shore that knew the mystery of storm and star._ ****** David is quiet as she tries to process the play of light on the water; the stretch of a pale half moon over the vast, inky darkness of the sea; the wind which breaks _the sea's surface into long, silvery ripples, and sends sheeny shadows flying out across it, from every point and headland, like transparent wings._ ******

"I think I want to be a lighthouse keeper when I grow up," Anne finally manages, in a voice halfway between shudder and sigh.

David turns to her, the light catching the warm flash of his eyes. "You wouldn't be lonely?" he asks, his smile wide and gentle on her, his hand unable to help the squeeze to hers.

"I'd have a dog. Or a cat," she replies airily.

"Sure," he agrees indulgently.

She sees his look to her, and feels his thumb brush across hers, and something ancient and powerful wants him to reel her in, locking his arms around her, answering this call she hasn't realised she had been making to him since their meeting under the oak; drumming, thrumming, beating. He is a breath away from doing it too; she slips from his grasp, eel-like and suddenly elusive, coyly doubling back to the proud brass plaque by the doorway; the proclamation of ' _Ford generosity and local community spirit working together to safeguard the light and its history for future generations.'_ Anne traces pale fingers thoughtfully over the words, and particularly over the name of benefactor _A T Ford_ ; her vague shadow comes to mingle with David's as he stands behind her and they both stare at the dedication.

"It was kind and well meaning for them to do it, your dad and grandad," his voice threads through the night towards her. "It was crumbling and rotting from the inside. Another year or two and there'd be nothing original left to save. It had been abandoned for decades. Some local volunteers had tried to maintain it as best they could, but it needed money, and fast. It was a shame we couldn't have raised the money locally, but it would have taken us years."

Anne swallows with difficulty. "We were so burned for it, though. My _dad_ was burned for it. He never come back to the Island after. He never showed me all this…" she flickers a glance around her, and her voice catches.

"Is it not enough that you're seeing it with me now?" the low voice behind her breathes.

"Yes…" she gulps, her face flooding with color. "Do you think we can see inside it, though?" she diverts, smiling shyly, and moves from the heat of his words, trying the front door, rattling it determinedly.

He has stepped away, hands deep in pockets, and lounges now laconically by the entranceway.

"Sure you can see inside, Miss Ford. Tours twice daily, eleven and three."

"That's not what I mean…"

"I _know_ that's not what you mean…" his smile flashes, but his eyes are shaded. "I don't fancy writing _convicted for breaking and entering_ on my medical school applications, thank you."

"Where's your sense of adventure, Gerald Blythe?"

His hazel eyes narrow both at the challenge and the tease.

"Right then, Rapunzel. Stand aside, and I'll get you into your damned tower."

She watches as David tries every lower opening and every window lock; he passes large hands over the outer building as if feeling for clues; he jogs out of sight of her around the entire perimeter. He is gone for ages.

" _David?"_ she bleats several times, ineffectually, her words carried off by the wind.

Finally, there is a scuffling from inside, and his curly head appears through the glass at the top of the door. His very satisfied grin is rather magnificent.

"David! You did it! I can't believe it!" she is appropriately incredulous.

"A piece of cake, worryingly," his voice is muffled. "Get your grandad onto better security, would you?"

"David! Let me in!" she is shaking the door off its hinges in excitement.

"What's the password?"

"Oh, you're _kidding_ me!"

"You wish I was!"

"Oh, God, I can't believe this! _Please!"_

"Pathetic."

" _Pretty_ please?"

"Wrong track, Miss Ford."

"Um… _bibbity bobbity boo?"_

He laughs at her delightedly through the door. "Closer."

"David! Come _on!_ Um… _Open Sesame?_ "

"Yawn."

"Um… _I Am Sherlocked?_ "

His dark brows fly up. "Oh, that's very good. Full points there. But no. _Think,_ Ford, think! Have a bit of _faith_ here."

It is a clue, and she glowers at him through the glass. Faith? What?

"Just _believe_ me, Anne…" he sings out from behind his barricade. "You know you want to…"

Oh, damn him!

" _I Want to Believe!_ " she flares, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

There is a chuckle, and then locks clicking and the definite sliding of deadbolts. Finally, the last lock, and then he is swinging the door open, grin unrepentant, hazel eyes alight with laughter.

"There, was that so hard?" he smirks.

* * *

Their footsteps sound loudly as David follows her, having shut the door carefully behind him, still brushing himself off from his commando-style crawl through the one barely open lower window round the other side, having dragged over a rock to stand on in order to haul himself up and through and then jumping down to fear he has tripped an invisible alarm. But then reminding himself, with a breath, this is the realm of _Four Winds, PEI_ , and relaxing enough to pace quietly through the surprisingly spacious lower floor before meeting her at the door. He can't remember the last time he was in here; it is a place that locals loved long ago, now ironically the realm of camera-toting tourists and the odd visitor on a _Life-book-_ inspired literary pilgrimage. But the age-old allure of the place reverberates; the heavy-booted shuffle of Captain Jim Boyd as he went about his solitary business almost echoes in their ears; as does the image of the quiet camaraderie of nights before a very different hearth in a most unusual home.

Anne is made so lovely by amazed, wondering eyes partially hidden by a russet glimmer of hair as she looks around, agog, that its all he can do to redirect his own eyes – and his thoughts – back to the intriguing artefacts in glass cabinets – a curious mix of curios – and the information and photographs displayed in the foyer. The little gift shop is shrouded in darkness but there is a soft dim light that illuminates the history of the light and the inevitable mention of Captain Jim, Owen Ford and the _Life-book._ They stand side-by-side reading what they mostly know; Anne turns to him, her brow delightfully arched, repeating a phrase he has only just read himself.

"' _Captain Jim and Owen Ford were introduced by their mutual friends, Dr Gilbert Blythe and his wife Anne, who were longtime and beloved residents of the local area, first in Four Winds and later Glen St Mary',_ she grins at him.

"Yeah, we must have paid the Historical Society for that one." He appears nonplussed but is secretly pleased by the acknowledgement.

"So the _Life-book_ may not have come about except for a Blythe or two."

"We all have our little part to play…" he sighs, smiling beatifically.

"Gilbert was another Blythe doctor? Because your ancestor Jem was a doctor too… and I think a sister of his and Rilla's was as well." *******

"Yep…" he replies mournfully. " _And_ my grandpa James in the day. So, you know, no pressure there."

There is an entire section dedicated to the lighthouse keepers themselves and, on occasion, their accompanying families, and of course a very generous panel on the ubiquitous Jim; the fond description of him from the _Life-book_ of _'a tall, somewhat stooped figure, yet suggestive of great strength and endurance; a clean-shaven face deeply lined and bronzed; a thick mane of iron-grey hair falling quite to his shoulders, and a pair of remarkably blue, deep-set eyes, which sometimes twinkled and sometimes dreamed, and sometimes looked out seaward with a wistful quest in them, as of one seeking something precious and lost.'_ ********

The large photo is the famous one of him, taken by Owen Ford himself _standing at the door of the lighthouse, looking across the gulf_ *********and reproduced in every edition of the _Life-book_ from the first _,_ but Anne stares at it as if seeing it anew; transfixed.

David turns to the copy of Tennyson's _Crossing the Bar,_ atmospherically printed beside the images of the old seafarers, reading the words aloud in the hushed environs.

 _Sunset and evening star,_

 _And one clear call for me!_

 _And may there be no moaning of the bar,_

 _When I put out to sea,_

 _But such a tide as moving seems asleep,_

 _Too full for sound and foam,_

 _When that which drew from out the boundless deep_

 _Turns again home._

 _Twilight and evening bell,_

 _And after that the dark!_

 _And may there be no sadness of farewell,_

 _When I embark;_

 _For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place_

 _The flood may bear me far,_

 _I hope to see my Pilot face to face_

 _When I have crost the bar._ **********

"Captain Jim loved that poem…" Anne breathes reverently, as if to herself. "He liked to hear it towards the end… he marvelled that Tennyson could capture what it meant to be a sailor even though he was not of course a sailor himself…" **********

"I didn't know that he said that," David smiles quizzically.

"I… I didn't know that _I_ knew he said that, either…"

" _It seems he was a rare old fellow…"_ ****** David offers thoughtfully.

"He was… he was…" Anne's eyes spark with tears, and her voice shakes.

"Anne? _Anne?_ " David's worry is in his voice, and he grabs for her arms, turning her to him. "Are you OK?"

Anne blinks at him unseeingly, and finally registers his concerned hazel eyes on hers.

"Oh… um… yes. Sorry."

"I thought you were going into one of John Selwyn's trances there."

She is flustered now, and he has her hand again, trying to direct her away gently.

"Anne, how about these display cases instead? There are some very cool things in here, actually."

They stop by the first; _'a wonderful, full-rigged toy schooner'_ ******and she stares again, and looks up to him, haunted and white-faced .

"No… I think… show me something just for _us,_ David," she almost pleads.

He squeezes her hand firmly. "Then come up and see the light."

* * *

The make a slow progression up the many winding stairs, feeling they are leaving the world behind with every echoing step. There are low lights built into the recesses of the walls but there is a deep, dreamy darkness between, and the headiness of their illicit adventure is heightened by their breaths taking in the old, stale air. David holds her hand in his as if heading an expedition into the great unknown; leading the way to protect her from peril; not daring to let her go. His touch anchors her, and she gladly accepts the pressure, wondering if he can feel her pulse racing, wondering if the last two days have been a strange hallucination and she will awaken soon in her bed, with his smile and his look and his touch only something she has half-dreamt and tried desperately to remember.

They reach the top, which opens out onto another door, and behind the window they see the mighty light, dwarfing the room, dormant and unused for years, yet perhaps only slumbering itself, awaiting the time when it might flash its great bright eye in watch across the gulf again.

The door holds further deadbolts; if it contains a lock, too, then it is hopeless, but luck and laxness is on their side, and the deadbolts slide away thunderously, and they are inside with the light, unable to contain their grins.

Silently, they look about; noting the small bookcase and the spare desk with its great ledger opened in display; it is a diary of the lighthouse keeper, meticulously maintained, and curiosity might have caught them but they have had enough of artefacts today, and are instead both drawn to the vast window and the grand, great spectacle below.

David hears Anne's delighted gasp of amazement and thinks he might half love her already.

They stare for long moments out to the sight of sea and stars; of water breaking against rocks beneath them; of the dark ocean before them as it heads out to hug a faintly discernible horizon. All of the world might be contained in this one view; all that is and all that was and all that will be.

"There aren't any words," Anne finally chokes out.

David releases a long breath. "No."

"For _any_ of this," she turns to him, her heart in her eyes.

He swallows with difficulty. He knows, of course, what she means. "No."

She holds his searching gaze with her own.

"You'll have to stop looking at me like that, David…" she whispers.

His smile is soft, and he raises a dark brow. "Oh? Like what?"

There is a pause for several beats. He waits. He has made the decision hers.

"Like…" she takes a steadying breath, "like you want to k– "

He has stepped towards her; they have no need of the remaining words, which are caught now inside him. His mouth is on hers in a pent-up breath given back to her, his large hand cupping her pale cheek, her soft shell pink lips yielding to his, and he tries to remind himself of the barrage of words in his head…trying to shift through _yes_ and _yes_ and _yes_ to find _careful… gentle… slow…_

He pauses; he reminds them both.

"Breathe."

He breathes; this is better. This is slow and steady and careful and gentle and lovely. This is him remembering her instead of himself; this is her shift from startled surprise into sweet stuttering surrender against him; this is his hand at her narrow waist, securing; this is … wait… her hand reaching up to his hair, her fingers curling into curls…

This is him learning, smiling against her mouth, that he might not have control of _anything_ anymore…

They are kiss for kiss, body to body, breath to breath, growing in a knowledge of one another that is both ancient and new.

They pause; breathe; break.

He thinks: _It's not usually meant to be like this…_

He realises: _Perhaps it was always meant to be like this…_

Her shining grey-green eyes are a view unto themselves, as is her knowing blush, as is her gently curving mouth, and he has no words for _that_ , either.

Perhaps words are not needed. Perhaps there are no thoughts you could put into words, anyway. Perhaps Shirley was right.

Anne Ford, fourth cousin, girl beneath yesterday's tree, girl of last night's dreaming and woman of this moment's revelation, takes his hand, slowly bends to kiss his scar, and then tugs him back towards the door.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

My chapter title is from Robert Browning's poem _'The Last Ride Together'._

*Walt Whitman _'From Pent-Up Aching Rivers', Leaves of Grass_ (1892)

**William Shakespeare _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 1 Sc 1)

*** Shirley's letter to Kit; from _elizasky's 'Dispatches'_ Chapter 52: _'Thoughts into Words'._ Referenced with her kind permission.

**** _Anne's House of Dreams_ (Ch. 5)

***** _Anne's House of Dreams_ (Ch. 34)

****** _Anne's House of Dreams_ (Ch. 9)

*******Talking here of Di Blythe, following on from elizasky's continuity in _Dispatches_ and _The Happiness We Must Win_

******** _Anne's House of Dreams_ (Ch. 6)

********* _Anne's House of Dreams_ (Ch. 39)

**********Alfred, Lord Tennyson ' _Crossing the Bar'_ also referenced in _Anne's House of Dreams_ (Ch. 35 and Ch. 39)


	7. And the powerful play goes on

_With thanks to all who have waited an age for this update… there were a few little things to sort out in 'Heart's Desire'-land first!_

 _This will read like an Oscars acceptance speech, but I want to say thank you to every one of you who has followed (officially or not) or favourited; to every faithful reviewer (hello_ _ **OriginalMcFishie**_ ) _, particularly those I am so slow in returning the favour to (hello and thanks to the wonderful_ _ **kslchen, Oz Diva, Excel Aunt, Anne O' the Island**_ _and_ _ **KimBlythe**_ _); and to_ _ **mavors4986**_ _for helping bring both the 80's and sexy back and_ _ **elizasky**_ _this week in particular for the safety net in every respect that are her PM's._

 _Additionally, there are lovely new reviewers to this story, and new guests adding much appreciated comments. I want to find a special time to thank you, too, but please know how fabulous it is to see a new reader engage with this (and any) story!_

With love and mix tapes,

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

' _ **That the powerful play goes on'**_

* * *

 _ **Interlude: Melissa Meredith  
Redmond College, Kingsport, Nova Scotia  
August 1989  
**_ _  
'There's another—not a sister; in the happy days gone by,  
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;  
Too innocent for coquetry—too fond for idle scorning—  
O, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!'_ *

There were few people whom Melissa Meredith set much store by in life, and even fewer possessions, and thus true to both sentiments as her lone piece of jewellery - bar a multitude of ever changing and ever bigger, bolder and brighter colored earrings - there lived a tiny gold heart, pierced by a tinier diamond, permanently pressed against her golden skin. She found herself often twisting the delicate gold chain in contemplation, sometimes rubbing the heart unconsciously against her lips, as she poured over her nursing texts over the years and tried to focus on something other than the gossip of her roommate and the invariable conjecture over who was sleeping with whom _this_ week.

She herself had been at the epicentre of that conjecture for nearly three years; but this would be the start of her senior year now, and things were getting serious, and so, finally, was she. Melissa had loved that at Redmond she was not flighty, as many a muttered aside back in the Glen, but a free spirit; not a rule breaker but a maverick. Though she couldn't think on being a _maverick_ without thinking of someone she had once christened _Goose._

Though too late she had realised that the joke was on her, and she was most definitely the feckless feathered creature in this equation.

It hadn't started out this way; they were firm friends who had met two if not three times a week, for a sandwich or a pizza, comparing new college experiences and their courses and news from home. They attended numerous parties together; there was even the dance held by the Law faculty, which hadn't been as stuffy as she'd feared. And then there had been… Derek.

Not an inspiring name, that was given, but absolutely a personage who inspired all manner of fantasies. At home she had not been unused to handsome men – Tony Drew had been more than passable; her brother, though painful to admit it, was bad-boy good looking and, heck, Rob himself was handsome by every objective measure – and a few _subjective_ ones too - but Derek Johnson was… beautiful. A sophomore with brown eyes and blonde hair, with the muscular strength of a sprinter due to his track scholarship; and with a smile that some sixties movie heroine would have described as… _dreamy_. Undertaking a Science degree rather predetermined her physical proximity to him, with the nursing building so close by… and one golden late October afternoon in first year, she happened to bump into him, in a way that was the cutest meet cute of any couple in the history of meet cutes, and the rest, as they said in all the classics, was history.

Well, the classics always failed to note the reaction of the best friend, unless they happened to be breathlessly agog and hanging on the update of the heroine for every twist and turn; every kiss and clandestine meeting. Rob was not so breathless and not so agog, but painfully polite, shaking Derek's hand when she introduced them; determined to play it cool because this was college, but the disappointment darkened his eyes, until she could not look into them, and began to make excuses for staying away so she wouldn't have to.

Really, Rob had to lighten up. They were at uni now, embarking on The Time of Their Lives. She had fought hard for the privilege of it and would squeeze every last drop of sensation she could from their experience of college life, in all its facets. She would _'suck out all the marrow of life'_ ** in every respect.

And one of those facets was, naturally, the losing of her virginity to Derek Johnson (such a stupid phrase, really, she had always thought – as if you could mislay it like a set of car keys) when her roommate was sufficiently encouraged by the inducement of money for a movie and snacks to vacate the premises, though Melissa had perhaps overestimated the time this momentous event would require, and had bid farewell to Derek and had even had opportunity for a quick shower by the time Debbie resurfaced to knock tentatively on her own door.

Debbie had certainly read the script, and was in all stages of breathless agog-ness, and charmingly clung to Melissa's secretly tepid and outwardly warm responses; no, it hadn't hurt as much as she had anticipated; yes, Derek was as hot naked as clothed; yes, she supposed she felt different, though that difference manifested as a curious detachment, and she was left with the vague sense of searching for answers, as if to a crossword puzzle where she had overlooked a rather obvious clue.

Her seven months with Derek was merely bland more times than it was boring, and if it was tedious watching him train that was rather offset by the fact he was pleasant and pretty to look at, and a fabulous escort to parties, where she would occasionally encounter Rob, with all the cheek-flaming awkwardness of a long-lost lover, and not a friend and third cousin who by now had his own colorless little girlfriend on his arm, smiling up at him as if he had hung the moon.

In the parade of paramours there next came Justin, who was sweet in the way of another she knew but perhaps without the intelligence; into second year she happened upon Greg, an architecture student whose methodical leanings unfortunately extended to the bedroom; and towards the end of second year there was Jon, who was an intern at the training hospital; their brief, torrid affair and bitter break up made her turn to feminism for much of third year and lesbianism for one strange if memorable night, and the swearing off of all men in the interval.

The summer break at the end of third year found her longing for the tranquil, restorative waters of home; a place she had never thought she would miss and a community she usually merely tolerated. She had expected Rob to be there and hence the possibility of reconnecting over a coffee at some café (or his _old lady_ tea if he insisted) but found herself at a loss when he was discovered to be clerking over the summer up in Charlottetown at Old Uncle Jerry's former chambers. That he had so thoroughly moved on from her with seemingly insulting ease was a bitter pill. Where was the patient guy who would wait forever, like some medieval knight?

And then, the bitterest revelation of all; he hadn't waited for her because she hadn't asked him to. That she had instead thumbed her nose at the idea of his waiting as some sort of breach of the sacred covenant between them, and not perhaps the very fulfilment of it.  
She didn't want to miss his quiet humour or his clever asides or his flash of a smile or the warmth of his chuckle or the twinkle of mischief in those hazel eyes. And she definitely didn't want to miss the slow realisation over so many years that she was made more special just by the way he looked at her.

She slunk back to Redmond early, mostly because there was nothing else to do, and she spent days pacing the dorms, listless and disaffected. She drifted off to the movie theatre closest to campus one early evening because it was showing _Dead Poets Society_ , and she wanted to watch it again to remind herself there _was_ still goodness in the world and that mavericks _could_ make a difference. And because militant feminism was tiring and she just wanted to sit and peruse cute guys in public school uniforms sprouting poetry for a while.

The queue was longer than she had hoped; mostly because everyone was also purchasing their own body weight in popcorn. A tall and impressively broad shouldered guy bought his ticket and turned to walk past, and her eyes locked with his because that's what they had always done.

Rob Blythe was staring back at her, juggling his coke and his popcorn and his clearly evident surprise.

 _Carpe Diem_ , Melissa Meredith breathed to herself.

XXXXX

"Rob!"

"Mel!"

It had been their first exchange in what felt like a year; she stared up at him and almost didn't know him. Who _was_ this gorgeous guy? Where the blazes had those shoulders come from?

Everything that had been reassuringly soft and still boyish about him had fallen away, to reveal this chiselled creature of firm, slightly-stubbled jaw; of dark hair no longer flopping fetchingly over one dark brow but now shorter and gelled into an artful quiff; of the shoulders barely encased in their denim jacket; the double-demined magnificence extending to long muscular legs in his Levis; her wondering gaze travelled down to his Reeboks and up again, past lean hips and firm torso and found startling refuge in his eyes, the only thing about him that felt the same. He quirked a small grin at her open appraisal, and her own cheeks flooded with color, and then she felt her body nudged forward by the guy behind her in the queue.

"Are you seeing what I think you're seeing?" he asked.

 _That was debatable_ , she frowned to herself, still trying to account for his appearance even as she outwardly nodded regarding his educated guess with regards to the movie, watching with wide eyes as he negotiated seats together, amazed to note the gentle charm worked upon the girl behind the cashier's desk whose seating plan he had irrevocably destroyed; he bought her ticket and a Diet Coke and a packet of Skittles, still her favourite sweets, working from long memory, and gave a broader smile as he led her away and towards the theatre doors.

"Um, thank you."

"Sure." He paused. "It's great to see you, Mel. How have you been?"

 _How had she been?_ She felt she had been sleepwalking through her life, and someone had just cruelly slapped her awake with a start. Her throat closed over the ironies that assaulted her, and it made her response more accusatory than she had intended.

"Fine," she stumbled on the word. "You didn't go home this summer!"

He glanced down at her, his brows coming together at her tone.

"Er, no. I intended to, but I got… caught up."

She hunted around for her manners. "You worked at Old Uncle Jerry's firm? In Charlottetown?"

"Yeah," his look was fond. "It was great. They let me sit at his beautiful old mahogany desk. I was able to go back over some of his cases – mostly because they had me sorting out the old files and the other junk in the back room, but I hardly minded."

His soft smile was touching. He had really hero-worshipped old Jerry.

"I'm sure he would have loved you being there."

"Yeah," he nodded thoughtfully, and then turned back to her. "And how were things back in the Glen?"

"Oh, pretty lively and rad, as per usual," she muttered darkly, and his long-missed chuckle reached across to caress her as if a hand.

They found their seats and settled in. The showing was a busy one, being a Friday night and with nothing else to do before classes resumed halfway through the next week, although the mostly-empty campus would fill with arrivals old and new on the weekend. Melissa was annoyingly aware of his presence next to her; of the aftershave that flared her nostrils; of all the other films they had seen back in the time when she would relax her head against his shoulder and give arch, whispered running commentary of the movie into his ear.

But here, so close, all she could think of was the vast space now between them.

The film shouldn't have made her cry so much. She knew what to expect. All the _yawping_ and dream-chasing and dream-shattering and defiant standing on desks. Her mother was a teacher at the high school; she would love this. But Melissa didn't think she could bear to ever see it again. Because it would just bring back memories she already wanted to bury; of those big Blythe hands feeding her a steady stream of serviettes to commandeer as tissues against the onslaught of her tears; of the bulging bicep giving up altogether and resting itself reassuringly around her shoulders, giving her a supportive squeeze every now and then; of his fond look to her when the house lights came up on her wrecked, tearstained face, with the sound of triumphant bagpipes over the end credits still ringing in her ears.

"Maybe we should have seen _Top Gun_ again," he offered wryly.

She cough-spluttered a laugh and once out in the foyer dived into the restrooms to repair the damage as much as possible. It was stupid to feel shy of him as they slowly walked the streets back towards the college, he too full and she too jittery to contemplate anything approaching dinner as yet. Their talk was of inconsequential details about their courses and their workloads and their joint assertions that they would never survive the year. Weaving their way through the familiar walkways and past the grand old buildings (and some unfortunate early 70's architecture) the university felt a ghost town, appropriate enough for the ghosts that haunted her of their past selves as she and Rob ended at her door within the practically deserted dorm. If felt as if the only sounds was her heart thumping in her ears, and his soft breathing beside her.

"Ah, my roommate is not back until tomorrow…" she began, her throat inexplicably dry.

"It's Debbie, still, right?"

"Yes. And you… it's still Simon?"

Rob groaned good naturedly. "Yes. And Simon is _still_ Simon."

She laughed freely for the first time that evening. Rob's roommate since first year was a nice, innocuous guy who was a case study in allergies and fastidious nervous behaviours. Their shared room was possibly the cleanest of any dorm in the whole of Redmond.

Melissa's invitation aimed for blasé and landed somewhere between scared and strangled.

"Would you like to come in for a while?"

Something shifted in that long-lashed, hazel gaze. "OK. Sure. Thanks."

XXXXX

Inside, the room was suddenly too small and his presence in it too overwhelming. Rob shrugged off his jacket and his t-shirted torso made things infinitely worse. Her dark blue eyes kept straying to his before looking away. Melissa had made the bed but had achieved little else; her boxes from home still heaped haphazardly. The only thing she had properly unpacked were her cassettes, a few new-fangled music compact discs and her new boombox which could play both. Her stack of cassettes sat on her desk; glaringly obvious at the top of the pile were two homemade mix tapes, which had become worn with use. Rob stilled, looking at them, frowning in concentrated bewilderment. And then, as she watched on breathlessly, he pushed play on the last thing she had been listening to, and the room filled with the audacious -and ironical - strains of Simple Minds' _'Don't You (Forget About) Me',_ from the joke tape he had made for her a lifetime ago.

He looked as if a stag stilled before a rifle, not sure if he was comprehending what his ears and eyes told him was possible danger. He switched it off and they were relieved by silence again.

"You… still listen to this?" his voice seemed to come at her from far away, as if down a long tunnel. "You still play these?"

"Occasionally…" she hedged, ensnared in her obvious lie.

He turned to her fully. " _Why_ , Mel?"

"Why do you think?" she bit out defensively, feeling foolish. "You can't get that stuff anywhere anymore."

Another lie, and her cheeks enflamed at his narrow-gazed appraisal. Unfortunately she always twisted the necklace he had given her when agitated and she did so again unawares, until his gaze burned her from across the room and she became conscious of her folly, tucking it back beneath her blouse.

"Would you like something to drink?" she began moving away towards the bar fridge, prattling desperately. "I haven't got much in yet, but – "

"Mel, stop! For God's sake, just please talk to me properly for a minute."

Her new inexplicable feelings bled into her response. "We have nothing to talk _about_ , Rob! You haven't been interested in talking to me for years!"

" _What?_ " his incredulity left him open mouthed.

"You didn't even come home this summer! You didn't even see your parents!"

"They came up to Charlottetown several times," he explained tersely. "They stayed for nearly a week halfway through the break."

"Well, thanks very much for _my_ invitation!"

"Honestly, Mel," he had become clearly exasperated, hands on hips. "I didn't think you were much interested."

"I am _always_ interested in what you are doing!"

"Well, when you're between boyfriends you are."

The unfortunate observation slipped from him before he had a chance to attempt to retrieve it, but it was far too late anyway. Her own mouth dropped open and those blue eyes nearly popped out of her head.

"You supercilious bastard!" she reddened. "How _dare_ you?"

He was immediately contrite, cheeks pinkening himself. "Mel – I'm sorry! I didn't mean that!"

"Of course not! And all the times I tried to touch base with _you_ meant nothing, I guess?"

"Mel, I couldn't!" his face and tone had become agonised. "I couldn't stick around and watch you waste yourself on guys who never cared about you."

"As opposed to _you_ , Rob? Throwing our friendship back in my face?"

"As opposed to _you_ , Mel, never giving me a chance?"

"You said you would wait forever for me! You hardly lasted a year!"

"I would have waited _forever_ for you if you had given me the _slightest_ hope!"

"God, Rob! This is such old ground! I never wanted us to end up a disaster like the rest of them! I loved you too much for that!"

Evidently the guy opposite her wasn't the only one blurting stupid things this evening.

" _Like_ ," she backpeddled quickly and clearly ineffectually, her cheeks on fire. "I meant… like."

He had stilled again, and it was extremely unnerving. "Did you?" he asked, breathing heavily.

"Shut up, Rob! I am not playing law nerd semantics here!"

"No…" his look was piercing. "But the law nerd is just trying to get a handle on the evidence."

" _Evidence_?" she blustered.

"You are still wearing my necklace…" he began, voice slowing to calm now, infuriatingly, and his eyes flickered momentarily to somewhere about her collarbone. "You still listen to my tapes. You didn't recognise me at first at the cinema, and for a moment…" his voice finally caught, "you looked at me like you've looked at those other guys you were so mad for. And… you've been acting weirdly all evening."

"I have _not_ been acting _weirdly_!" she clutched at the easiest thing to deny. "The movie was wrenching!"

He ignored this. "And you can hardly make eye contact with me."

She swallowed painfully, and gave him a long, deathly stare just to show that she could.

"Yep, that's convincing," he gave the ghost of a smile.

"You never were a smart alec before, Rob. It was one of the things I most admired about you."

He paused before answering. "And you never used to lie to yourself – _or_ me – Mel. It was one of the things I most admired about _you_."

She scowled darkly at this, trying for affronted, but fearing her efforts were merely pitiful.

"The truth is I've missed you, Rob," she finally admitted begrudgingly, throwing her hands up in the air in defeat. "Alright? Are you happy? I've missed hanging with you. Though on tonight's recent efforts God knows why."

His eyes were surprised at this, but then he gave a maddening smirk. "I have missed you too, Melissa Una Meredith," he gave blithe reply.

She grabbed the nearest object, which was a shoe, and lobbed it in his general direction. Regrettably her aim was rather better than she'd reckoned on – or he'd grown taller and broader so there was just so much more of him – but she ended up clunking him fair and square on the side of the head.

"Ow!" he cried, his hand going to his crown.

"Oh, God, Rob! I'm so sorry!" she gasped. "I didn't mean that! I was just reacting stupidly to your stupid tease!"

"It's alright, Mel…" he half turned away from her, pressing his fingers to his scalp and then pausing as if to examine them. "But I think I'm bleeding…"

" _What_?" she shrieked, instantly bolting across to him, dragging him by the hand to her bed while he held his head with the other. Oh, God, had the heel of her shoe cut him? Would it be deep enough to need stitches? The hospital at this hour on a Friday night would be teeming with the injuries resulting from the drunken antics of the local populace, even without most of the college crew in residence yet.

"Rob…" she stood before him seated on the bed. "Please just let me look at it…" she leaned over to run deft fingers through his thick dark hair, too aware of her proximity to him, and those hazel eyes watching her that made her rather breathless.

"Umm…" she puzzled, leaning back to look at him, "there's a very slight bump but I don't see any…" She halted at his face; the light in his eyes; the emergence of a full-throttle Blythe grin.

"Maybe I was mistaken about the blood," he acknowledged blandly.

She felt her own face crack open on a smile. "You _pig_!" she giggled in relief, thwacking his disconcertingly hard bicep. ''You _swine_!"

"Hey!" he laughed, catching her hand, drawing her to sit beside him. "A common mistake! I'm not the one with the medical training!"

Melissa tried to maintain a vestige of control, but her mind had gone to mush.

" _Goose_ ," she sighed, almost sadly.

His laugh skidded to a stop. His eyes bore into hers. There were long leaden moments where the very air in the room felt heavy and dense with anticipation.

Gosh, would he _ever_ kiss her? she gulped to herself.

Of course not. This was Rob Blythe. This was…

Oh, OK then. This was Rob Blythe _kissing her._

 _XXXXX_

His lips leaned in, brushing hers, carefully, as if expecting her to still draw back, despite all _evidence_ to the contrary. When she met his, just as tentatively, she heard his surprised intake of breath, and it broke something in her, brittle girl she had been. Her hands immediately reached again for his hair, in caress now, and then locked around his neck, and he deepened the kiss in an instant; and in that infinitesimal beat of time her world and all her understandings of it shifted, as he drew her narrow waist to him with his large hands; bringing her with him to lie on the bed. Her brain whirled, trying to find any reason with which to right itself; this couldn't be Rob, _her_ Rob, kissing her in this manner; this passionate, fearless, abandoned manner, which was slowly obliterating all her thoughts and reducing her to senses; the taste of his lips, still salt-scented and slightly tangy; the touch of his tongue as it questioned and quested; the feel of his long muscular body pressing in urgent greeting to hers; the smell of his cologne-scented skin, light and nuanced with an underlying note of sweetness, just like him; the sound of his breath shared back and forth with her; and finally, to have her eyes flutter open, dazed, amazed, to see his beautiful, hopeful face, and the curve of his lips into a sensationally satisfied smile.

She stared into the hazel eyes she loved, and knew with a sudden stab so new and yet so long denied that she loved _him_ ; that she _loved_ him, and not because she was lonely and celibate for the last fourteen months; not because she was nostalgic for the past; not because he was handsome in the way that he had always been handsome ramped up a thousand-fold; not because he was in every way her best friend, even after all this time; not because he was gentle-strong and decent and intelligent and wry; not even because he knew his way around a kiss… Though there was truth in all those things, they were not the things that mattered. She loved him, now, this moment, in the new-knowledge, splintering her heart, that she couldn't bear to be without him again, ever.

"I love you, Rob…" she breathed in a way that was in every way unlike her and yet so very much like she always felt she could be.

" _Love_ me?" his hazel eyes were wide.

"Well, yes, I…" she faltered, unsure of her path now, this new territory, having never actually offered the words before. " _I think I love you_ … as in David Cassidy and _The Partridge Family_ and… ah… all that." ***

He took another breath, as if he had been drowning only to suddenly resurface. "I… I love you too, Mel…" his eyes blistered with sudden light and longing. "I always have. But then… well… you knew that long ago."

"Yes…" she reached out to trace a finger down his cheek, running the pad along the prickles there. She gave a sweet smile. "But I didn't know… about _me._ I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Rob. I didn't know… I just wasn't… _ready_ … then."

His brows drew together, as if still disbelieving. "And you are _now?_ "

"Yes!" her kiss was every way a vow, cupping his face between her hands. " _Yes_ , Rob!"

Her lips dragged his back to her, and the resulting minutes became feverish with mouth and hands and bodies, interchangeable and intertwined.

"Oh, Mel…" he suddenly groaned as her hands roamed to the skin beneath his t shirt. "Oh God… I'm sorry. I can't."

"Rob?"

He sat up, head in his hands. "I'm sorry, Mel. I can't do this. Much as I'd like to – and I _unbelievably_ would like to!"

"Rob…" she sat up too, nestling into him, rubbing his back reassuringly. "Oh Rob… It's OK… really. This is all new for us. It takes… time. Though I would have thought, you know, with that girl you dated for ages…?"

Admittedly, she was shaky on the details, but he had dated that mousy girl – Sally? Kellie? – for over a year, possibly eighteen months, and she was sure he had had some dates in the interval. But perhaps she had wanted to wait – or perhaps _he_ had wanted to, Blythe chivalric code firmly in place. Knights and vows and waiting and all that. Her heart swelled.

He looked back to her curiously. "Mel, you don't think that I'm…?"

"There's no shame in it, Rob!" she determined fiercely.

He bit down on his lip, and began to chuckle darkly.

"God, Mel!" he shook his head, bemusement breaking through his agony. "You don't know how much I really _have_ missed you! But, Mel… I'm not a _virgin_. I… I have a _girlfriend_."

"What?" she questioned dully, not following.

His sigh came from his very depths. "This would have to happen _now_ , of course! I've loved you since I was _fifteen,_ Mel! That makes it five years of waiting for those words!" he threw her a look of heartbreak and shimmied away from her and off the bed. He began to pace before her, alternatively rubbing his hands down his face or through his hair in agitation.

"I have _dreamed_ of a moment like this, dammit!" he continued to lament. "And this is just typical!"

"Rob – I'm sorry! I don't want to confuse you… but you don't owe any allegiance to her! Kellie or Sally or whatever her name was!"

His frown was deep, though an edge of humour softened it.

" _Allie!_ Thanks for paying attention there!"

"Well, sorry, Rob Blythe, but same difference!" she huffed. "And my observation still stands."

He rolled his eyes.

"Mel, I don't mean Allie. I mean…" he paused, mouth working to form the words. "I mean _Kimberley_."

" _Kimberley_?" she echoed, incredulous.

"Kimberley," he affirmed bleakly. "Whom I met this summer… in Charlottetown."

Melissa froze. Well, so _that's_ why he could hardly drag himself back to the Glen.

She tried to keep her face composed, though she had not reckoned on such a development.

"Well then…" she managed.

"I tried to move on from you, Mel!" the admission seemed ripped from his throat. "I tried so hard to move on from you! And I was doing OK, too!"

"Do you still want the opportunity to do that?" she was suddenly fearful of the possibility, and she felt the fear transfer itself to her face. _Oh, God, what if he did? What if she had realised too late?_

His look to her could have melted her clothes off her skin. "What do _you_ think?"

She reddened with a primeval pleasure.

" _Well,_ then…" she swallowed. "If I love you, and you love me, and not her, just phone her. Break up."

"Mel, you know I could never do that! I would need to see her… in person."

She blew out a frustrated breath. "So, go next weekend, and see her in person," she continued stubbornly.

"Mel…"

"God, your parents haven't met her, have they? They don't know that you and she were - "

"No! Of course not!"

Well, _that_ was something.

" _No one_ knew about us, Mel. It was a bit, ah, clandestine…" His look had grown incredibly sheepish. "Because, ah, she was actually a staffer, and it would have been against their Code of Conduct, as I was also technically an employee below her in rank…"

"She was on staff?"

"Yes. She had nearly finished her Articles."

Mel made some quick mental calculations, and then her mouth dropped open.

"She has to be older than you by… well… two or three years…"

"Nearly four, actually. She took a year off to travel after her degree."

Her mouth hit the floor, and she attempted to scoop it back up again. Rob had been having some secret affair with a _twenty five_ year old?

She swallowed again, with even more difficulty, giving him a loaded look from beneath her lashes. No wonder he knew how to kiss. And… the new and still-surprising thought colored her cheeks… probably a little more than that besides.

She heaved herself off the bed in the last vestige of imperious indignation, crossing her arms to give full regal effect.

"Well, Robert James Blythe! You _have_ been busy!"

"Please don't be like that, Mel! I didn't expect anything to happen with her. And I certainly didn't expect anything to happen with _you!_ Give me _some_ credit!"

She wished she didn't feel marginally impressed by these lothario leanings he was demonstrating, though they ran counter to all her fond imaginings about him. But then… fond imaginings had nothing to do with the tingle of delightful torment when he looked at her as he was looking at her now…

"Mel…" he came to her, his eyes the earnest eyes of the boy she remembered, inside the man she was learning about anew. He sighed deeply. "This is a mess. I'm sorry."

She swallowed. "I haven't exactly helped matters…" she met him halfway. "I could have realised I loved you _before_ the summer, at least."

He gave quite a beautiful smile at that; the half-heartbroken smile of the boy on his eighteenth birthday, having kissed her with everything in him, and it still, then, hadn't been enough.

"I wanted to do this so differently…" his voice had dropped to a low rumble. "I wanted for you to… um… for me to try to make you maybe realise that…" He flushed, rolling his eyes.

"To make me realise I had feelings for you?" she asked gently, and then with a suggestive gleam, "and how did you propose to do that?"

"Well…" he shrugged, looking delightfully embarrassed now. "It probably involved me kissing you senseless… and, er, other things…"

She cleared her throat, and her blood hummed. "Granted, the _other things_ probably need to wait, um, _how_ long exactly?"

"Three weeks," he explained carefully. "She's on a work assignment in Alberta."

Melissa's breath was long and her response very dry. "Of _course_ she is."

Rob looked at her, trying to judge her reaction. "I waited five years for you, Mel," he offered with quiet fervour. "Can you wait a month for me?"

"Well, that all depends…" her lips found the sultry smile she didn't know lived in her, and she met his eyes challengingly. "Maybe you can forget you have a girlfriend for five more minutes, and remind me how that _kissing me senseless_ idea goes again?"

He grinned the grin he always found just for her, and caught her in his arms, her lips parting eagerly beneath his lingering smile.

* * *

David was convinced that there were few occasions in life more excruciatingly mortifying than the one he faced that Sunday morning, but he was determined to make the best of it. His amorously-inclined father, newly awakened as if a young colt introduced to a fresh pasture, hid behind his newspaper, preferring to sense his scrambled eggs by touch rather than risk a glance which might inadvertently land on the smirking visage of his lookalike son.

"So you explored some of the local sights yesterday, Dad?" David asked blandly.

"Mm-hmmm…"

"Glad you didn't catch any sun. It certainly was pretty hot and steamy by the afternoon…" David bit down on his lip so hard he felt he might draw blood.

"Mmmm…"

"I really hope you showed Tessa a good time…" David shook now with the effort not to laugh, and was rewarded by a great spluttering in response and a scramble for a gulp of tea, the previous day's _The_ _Globe and Mail_ **** acting as thankful bulwark between him and stray breakfast projectiles.

With a deep sigh Rob Blythe folded the newspaper and set it down beside his plate.

"It's times like this, son, you are disconcertingly like your mother."

David grinned broadly.

"That's because I have Meredith blood running through my veins twice over, as Anne has been too pleased to remind me."

At mention of Anne, Rob's face lit from within, no doubt reflecting on others of his acquaintance from that family. After a moment he attempted to compose his features and his response.

"David… I would like to have a quick word about yesterday. I owe you an apology. _And_ Anne. You were both left completely to your own devices and it's something that Tessa and I both regret. I should never have put you in the position of being solely responsible for Anne's welfare for all day and... into the evening."

"Dad, it's fine! _We_ were fine! We had a nice time…" _so much more than a nice time, he mused,_ "and really, she's seventeen, I'm nearly twenty-one; no big deal."

" _Still…_ " his father was evidently unwilling to cast off his hair shirt, "it shouldn't have happened, and it won't again."

" _It won't?"_ David quirked a knowing eyebrow.

"Oh, alright!" Rob scoffed. "You know what I mean!"

David began to chuckle infuriatingly, making his father shake his head in despair.

"How did the family research go?" Rob asked after a moment.

"Diversionary tactics there, Dad."

Rob rolled his eyes. "Be that as it may, Mr Smart Alec. I notice half the attic has made its way downstairs."

"Yeah. Sorry about that," David glanced to the boxes at the end of their long dining table and a few clustered on the floor.

"Don't apologise! I'm thrilled - you know that. As long as all this isn't taking you away from your MCAT studies."

"It's all under control, Counsellor," David flashed a grin.

"And as long as Anne is enjoying things too. Has she liked learning a little more about the family?"

In an instant David was back at the top of the lighthouse that previous evening, as the midnight darkness was broken by the imagined beam of light from its dormant eye, and the light coming from Anne's own eyes before he had kissed her.

"I think so far she has found it all very… _illuminating,_ " his smile softened.

"Good…" Rob's litigator gaze took in his son thoughtfully. "David, you don't have anything to _share_ with me, do you?"

The answering smirk wasn't quite so cocksure as before. "No more than I imagine _you_ do, Dad."

"Yes, well, alright…" Rob flushed despite himself. "Just, ah, be mindful, OK son? She's younger and, er, _family_ and … well… _three buttons_ ***** and all that."

David sighed extravagantly. "And _Noah_ phoned while you were out. He wants his Ark back."

This earned him a swot on the shoulder with the aforementioned reading material, though Rob joined with his son's laughter. They began to compile breakfast paraphernalia on the bench and in the dishwasher, caught in their own thoughts.

"David… you know I love you," Rob announced seriously.

"Jeez, Dad, of course! And I love you, too."

"I wouldn't want… recent developments… to take anything away from what your mother meant to us – what she meant to _me._ I loved her very, very much."

David contemplated his father seriously; this decent, honourable, good hearted man of strong values and tender sensibilities. His throat tightened unexpectedly.

"I know, Dad. I know. Me too. But… I'm happy for you. You deserve this."

Their hug was brief and heartfelt, before Rob moved towards the study and David to the stairs; the ladies of their new acquaintance were having the morning with Maddie Meredith and then their Ford visitors would come together to Ingleside in the afternoon.

Before he ascended, David called his father back.

"Dad? Thoughts of Ma and latchkey kids aside, you don't have any other _regrets_ about yesterday, do you?"

If Rob Blythe was caught out by the question, the lawyer in him was hardly going to let it show. His slow smile, gaining in watts to full Blythe brightness, told its own story.

"Not a single one, son. Not a single one."

* * *

Anne was convinced that there were few occasions in life more excruciatingly mortifying than the one she faced that Sunday morning, and she prayed for it to be over as soon as possible.

"I hope you know how sorry I am, Anne, love. Rob too. We were very negligent and – "

"Mom, _please._ It's OK. I'm _seventeen,_ not seven."

Tessa drummed nervous fingers on the dining table of their suite. "All the same, darling, I… I…"

"Mom, stop beating yourself up! It was fine. I was with David the whole time… and I met Maddie and Max, too, and you'll meet _her_ later."

"Yes, that will be lovely. And David… David was terrific. I'm so grateful to him, taking you under his wing and…"

"Mom! You make it seem like I'm some stray animal he took in for the day!"

"Love, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way…" Tessa covered her face with her hands. "I am making an absolute mess of this!"

"Mom… how about I ask the questions, and you answer them. Then we might get out of here sooner."

"OK…" Tessa's look was dubious.

"Right. Firstly… you… slept with Rob Blythe?" Anne's cheeks flushed alongside her mother's.

"Oh, darling!" Tessa looked horrified. "Couldn't you have started with what we had for lunch?"

Anne's lips quirked. " _Believe_ me, Mom. _That_ is not the hardest question."

Tessa let out a long breath. "Yes, darling. I'm sorry… I did."

"Why are you sorry? Was it not… _nice?_ "

"Oh my God. I am just not ready for this conversation!" She looked to Anne, still waiting patiently and somewhat wonderingly. "Would you like some water, sweetheart?"

"Mom… you're avoiding the question!"

"Just let me get some water…"

Her mother took an inordinate amount of time to pour bottled water into two glasses, and then she added ice, and walked very slowly back to the in-room breakfast neither had barely touched. She was a little more composed when she sat down again.

"Right, darling. I'll answer you honestly. You are virtually an adult yourself; you deserve nothing less. I… I meant I was sorry in that I felt I let you down, in not being there for you, and going off by ourselves. I didn't want to imply that my time with Rob was the part I was sorry about. My time with him was not just nice it was… lovely. _Too_ lovely. Not just when we were… together… but the whole day. I don't know if I could date anyone now, back home, after having met him. So maybe _that_ part I'll regret. Maybe he's spoiled me for anyone only half as nice. And not being able to pull the _mother_ card on you, my love, ever again, after my hasty behaviour is probably a regret as well…"

Her mother looked dangerously close to tears; Anne hardly felt she could ask her real question now.

"Mom… do you love him?"

Her mother took another long sip of water.

"I think… I am dangerously close to falling in love with him, yes."

"Do you… _want_ that to happen?"

"Oh, darling…" Tessa sighed. "I don't know. It's only been a few days. This has all been crazy and so quick and… Really, it's just this Island, and it's just this summer and… I didn't come for this, so it feels wrong to hope for it now… and nothing can come of it, anyway. Different worlds, love… I'm only visiting. In a few weeks we'll be back home again, and we'll have a pumpkin in the drive and not a glass coach…" Tessa gave a pained, lopsided smile. "So if I live in the fairytale for a while, it's only that I know midnight will come again eventually."

"Mom! That's just too sad! You have a right to be happy!"

"Darling, I _am_ happy!" Tessa protested.

"I _thought_ you were… I really did. And then you met Rob Blythe, and now I know the difference. And its'… its spoiled things for _me,_ too."

"Oh, _Anne…_ " Tessa's beautiful face finally fell in on itself.

"I really like Rob Blythe. He makes you happy. I'm pretty sure you make _him_ happy. Why not just… be happy?"

"Out of the mouths of babes…" Tessa shook her head incredulously, and then gave her lovely, tinkling laugh, only with a darker edge to it. "Why not, indeed?"

"You don't believe you can be?"

"No, it's not that, love… it's just that life isn't that simple."

"We've _done_ complicated, Mom. I think it's time to _try_ simple."

Her mother's breaking, genuine smile, then.

"Anne Alexandra Ford, Agony Aunt. And where does _David_ Blythe fit into these wise musings?""

Anne reddened at the unexpected change in direction.

"He doesn't fit anywhere, Mom! That is… he's nice…" _so much nicer than nice…_ "He's really great…" _so much greater than great…_ "But we… we're just…"

Anne halted, defeated. Her mother had claimed she deserved honesty but she was giving none in return.

"I like him. A lot," she blurted before she lost her nerve. "But maybe _that's_ just the fairytale part, too."

"You're seventeen, darling…" Tessa's tone was wistful. "You should get to _have_ the fairytale."

Anne reddened beautifully, and found her glass of water newly fascinating.

"It's just that, darling… you're still young and… David is _older_ and… I'd hate to say _do as I say and not as I do_ but…"

"Mom!" Anne leapt up in indignation, barely resisting the urge to cover her ears in mounting horror. "We were going so well!"

"Sweetheart! Will you just take things slowly and…"

Anne's affronted eye roll nearly caused permanent damage.

"No more _Mom_ Card, Mom! At least not for a day or so!"

Tessa let out a steadying breath.

"OK, love. Fair enough… But fair warning, I am only taking a raincheck."

"I would expect nothing less," Anne huffed.

"Darling, can I _please_ say what I would like to say _once,_ and I won't mention it again unless you want to, and I am saying this fully aware of the … irony… of my own actions."

"OK…" Anne clutched the back of her chair tightly.

"You … you are the most precious thing in the world to me, Anne. And so, if anyone now or in the future is deserving of you, they will treat you as if they think you are exactly the same, to them. Never forget how _incalculably precious_ ****** you are."

Anne blinked back her tears.

"Does Rob treat you that way?" she asked hoarsely.

"Yes, love. Absolutely."

"Did… did _Dad?_ "

A pained pause, and dark grey eyes met troubled brown.

"Darling, I…"

" _Honesty_ , Mom, remember?"

Tessa took a shuddering breath.

" _Mostly."_

Anne nodded silently, biting her lip.

"Don't worry, Mom," Anne's throat throbbed, barely able to force the words, determined not to cry. "I know what being treated as _something incalculably_ _precious_ *****looks like. Because I've had you there for seventeen years, every day, showing me."

Tessa stood, coming around to her daughter, and her hug was long and heartfelt. Anne registered the tears damp on her cheeks, but this time they weren't her own.

* * *

No one knew where to look, or who indeed whom to look _at._ Rob was effusive in greeting Anne that afternoon and only furtively smiled at Tessa. Tessa was concentrating all her too-cheery efforts on David, thanking him for taking Anne to meet the Merediths and obliquely for everything else. David's eyes darted everywhere. Anne concentrated her efforts on the floorboards.

They finally relaxed over coffee, tea and hot chocolate. Enough, at least, for Anne and Rob to begin to excitedly converse over their findings.

"Has your research so far uncovered anything new to you, Anne?" Rob wondered.

"It _has,_ Rob! Some great primary sources. There's old newspapers and bills and so forth. My great great grandmother Rilla wrote a diary over the war years. I'd love to take a closer look at it for a while if you don't mind. And… ah…" she shot a quick look at David. "We might have a few questions for you regarding some Blythe family members…"

"Oh?" Rob smiled. "Did you find a closet full of skeletons we don't know about?"

Anne opened her mouth to reply, before David cut in quickly.

"About that, Anne…" he intercepted. "I just wanted to check over something with you upstairs."

"OK," Anne blushed, instantly making the invitation seem less-than-innocent. She followed David to his room, leaving the parents to their own innuendo-inflected conversation.

Inside his room David closed the door; an intentional move that was not lost on her. He stood before the door, and then moved towards her hovering near the bed.

"Hi," he offered.

"Hi," Anne replied.

"You're… OK?"

"Yes," she nodded firmly. " _Very._ Unless you count… _tres_ awkward breakfast conversations with my mom."

He rolled his eyes. "Roger that. This end, too. But let's not go there now…" his tone had lowered seductively, and his hazel eyes could not decide whether they wanted to linger on her own eyes or her lips. "We have other matters to attend to."

"Oh?" she breathed. "Did you have anything particular in mind?"

He gave a wolf's smile. "Oh, Anne. Don't tempt me."

This gifted him the blush he had been courting, and his insides smiled too. Damn, she was lovely. Damn, those three buttons.

"Anne, there's something I wanted to run by you about Shirley Blythe's letter, before we go with it to Dad…."

"Oh…?"

"But once I do, you will be completely preoccupied with it, I think, and we'll miss our window for… saying _hello_ properly."

"Oh…?"

"So I was wondering, if there were no objections, if I said _hello_ to you first, and then went over the letter."

"Right." How long, she thought, did a person not breathe before they lost consciousness?

"So… is that a plan that works for you?" the gleam in his hazel eyes lit them as if a match struck.

She nodded, not trusting words.

He took a small step towards her.

" _Hello,_ Anne."

He did not wait on her reply, but instead placed his long fingered, beautiful Blythe hands either side of her pale cheeks, leaning in to kiss her deeply. The room spun as if they both stood within the vortex and the air swirled around them, sucking all force towards their center; specifically the pressure of David's lips on hers.

The kiss was not long but hardly needed to be; it had more than done its job. With a grin and a kiss on her nose he left her to go to the desk; Anne plonked backwards onto the bed, grateful she no longer had to fight gravity.

"OK, then…" David was all business when he returned to sit down beside her, the copy of the Whitman in his hands. "If I asked you to be Best Man at my wedding, what would you think that would mean?"

"Sorry?"

"Just play along for a minute, please Anne. There is a method to the madness I assure you. So, a Best Man's role. Forget before the wedding. What would a best man do _at_ the ceremony?"

"Um… well… he has the rings…"

"Yes…"

"When the bride comes in, he's waiting up the front, next to the groom."

"Yep. Would you say he _stands beside them_?"

"Sure. Of course." She nodded, frowning slightly.

"And who would you normally expect a groom to ask to be their Best Man?"

"Well, their best friend, of course."

"Male of female?"

She laughed. "Depends on the time and place! In Toronto there have been a few Best Girls in tux's, believe me! There was a wedding of a friend of my cousin's where that happened – it got a bit weird when it came to the dancing!"

He allowed her diversion, smiling bemusedly.

"OK. Sure. But what would your answer be if we're talking _here_ in Glen St Mary, or hell, anywhere on the Island or the mainland too, around the end of the First World War?"

"Well, _male,_ obviously!"

" _Okay,_ then," he gave a smug smile of satisfaction.

"David, what is all this about?"

"Here…" he opened the Whitman and carefully extracted the letter. "Keep all that in mind, and read what Shirley says to _Kit_ again…"

David watched Anne reading the letter, waiting for the lightbulb moment. He knew when it came; her gasp of disbelief and her agog grey eyes proclaimed her guided discovery fairly clearly.

"Oh my God!" she turned to David.

"What is your understanding now?"

"Shirley says _stand up beside you while I_ _hold my peace… While you marry someone else."_

"What would your conclusion be about them, then?"

"That… _Kit_ had to be a man! … That Shirley was in love with Kit, who was a man…"

David nodded silently.

"That Shirley Blythe was gay," Anne whispered, as if the very walls of Ingleside could hear them.

There was a beat of a few minutes whilst Anne digested all this.

"So… do you want to sit on this for a while? Or go down and shock my Dad?" he smiled knowingly.

Anne folded the letter reverently.

"Do you think he knows?"

David shrugged. "Hard to say."

"It was illegal…" Anne's face contorted in worry. "He could have gone to prison! Oscar Wilde did, not long before this letter was dated."

"Homosexuality wasn't decriminalised here until _1969_ …" David asserted, nodding sadly. "The year my Dad was _born_."

" _Who_ was _Kit,_ then? Someone here in the Glen?"

"Only one way to find out, I'm thinking…" he raised a speculative eyebrow. "But it's your call, Anne. _You_ found the letter."

"But its _your_ letter within _your_ book within _your_ house!"

"My _Ma's_ book, actually…" he offered quietly.

"Really? Oh, David! Do you think _she_ knew of the letter?"

"Jeez! I never thought of that!" his own eyes widened.

"Would Shirley _Blythe_ have given young Melissa _Meredith_ a _love letter_ he wrote to his _gay_ lover at the end of World War One?"

David's own eyes widened further. "Would Shirley Blythe have given my ma the letter _he_ had sent to _someone else?_ "

" _Kit_ passed on the letter! Your _mother_ knew _Kit?"_

They had both almost levitated off the bed in the growing rush of their excitement.

"Still _your_ call, Anne!" David was virtually bouncing on his toes.

Anne took the letter and folded it back into the Whitman, pressing the volume to her chest.

" _Carpe Diem!_ " she was already halfway to the door, racing David down the stairs.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

I break tradition today to take my chapter title from Walt Whitman;

' _That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse'_ from _'O Me! O Life!'_ in _Leaves of Grass_ (1892) Book XX ' _By the Roadside'_.

Which was also wonderfully highlighted in _Dead Poets Society… 'What will_ your _verse be?_ '

 ***** _'Bingen on the Rhine'_ by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton (1867) also recited, of course, by Gilbert in _Anne of Green Gables_ (Ch 19) for absolutely the same reasons as I reference it here.

**A quote from one of my favourite films, _Dead Poets Society,_ directed by Australian Peter Weir, which was indeed released in 1989 and confirmed my desire to teach literature. Vale, Robin Williams – he said many times that teacher John Keating was his very favourite role.

The film was also my introduction to the _'sweaty-toothed madman'_ Walt Whitman, although I did not revisit him properly till decades later, courtesy of _**elizasky.**_

After seeing the film, which was a seminal moment for me, my seventeen year old self went home and wrote _Carpe Diem_ in bright pink and orange fluroescent marker on the biggest sheet of paper I could find, and that life advice lived on my wall for the next five years, until I fronted my own class of teenagers.

Of course, the phrase _to 'suck out all the marrow of life,_ is directly quoted and referenced in the film, and is from Henry David Thoreau, from _'_ _Where I Lived, and What I Lived For', in Walden; Or, Life in the Woods_ (1854);

" _I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion."_

Those of you following _**elizasky's 'The Happiness We Must Win'**_ (which is hopefully everyone!) will know that Nellie gave Carl Meredith the self-same book; not an originally intended little wink to the continuity I am trying to establish with both our stories, but one I will grinningly take with both hands.

***Whilst we are talking films, this is my riff on Hugh Grant's speech to Andie MacDowell in _Four Weddings and a Funeral,_ although since that film wasn't released until 1994, you can be rest assured that Melissa is quoting the actual song from the series. Vale, David Cassidy.

****Alas, _The Globe and Mail_ doesn't print a Sunday edition, but then Rob didn't get to too much reading the previous day! (For a refresher, see my M story _A Beating Heart at Dance-Time_ )

*****see _**elizasky's**_ _'Glen Notes'_ and ' _Dispatches'_

****** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 20)


	8. If two lives join, there is oft a scar

**Author's Note:** _Dear Lovely People_

 _Another acceptance speech: I am going for the EGOT foursome I feel._

 _This chapter is incredibly long. Oh, so incredibly long. I apologise to anyone kind enough to take precious time out of their day to read this, and thank you sincerely. I struggled with sections of it so much; I struggled with its message; I struggled with its length. I have tried many times to split this… but felt that would be a disservice to what I was trying to do with the chapter itself (highlighted, as ever, in the title quotation) and to the story as a whole. The story wants what the story wants._

 _There are so many magnificent stories on this site; I am enjoying them all, past and present. I wish I was better at quick reviews to show appreciation for your own time and care and effort. And to thank you for your own reviews and PM's, which I relish. To answer those properly is my next quest. But in the meantime, as promised, thank you this week to_ _ **LizzyEastwood, NotMrsRachelLynde, TooTiredtoReadEnough, StolenDanceCard1897, AnneFans, slovakAnne, linhhermione, sharynmitchell101, NovemberRainbow, Summer Allen, Bright River, crispybluebirdperfection, rebeccathehistorian and Alinyaaleithia.**_ _And to the fabulous_ _ **guest**_ _who enquired about Anne's Windy Poplars love letters – they are coming!_ Also to _**tessamarie –**_ _if you are reading this too, sorry about 'The Land of Heart's Desire' wait – back to that next!_

 _If you are playing the guess-the-80's-movie-reference with the fabulous_ _ **mavors4986**_ _and myself, you will find lots of 1980's movie love here, but specifically I have referenced the same film that_ _ **mavors4986**_ _has in her latest 'Haunt Me in the New Year' chapter (Chapter 16). Can't find it? Too many words? All right then, its's all towards the end, in the conversation between Anne and David. And for anyone reading 'Heart's Desire' too, there were some 'Back to the Future' references in Chapter 21._

 _It this_ _ **were**_ an acceptance speech, sometime after thanking God and my parents, I'd be thanking _**elizasky;**_ _for her beta reads, encouragement, ideas-tossing and entrusting of her characters to me. For anyone with sharp eyes there are some Easter Eggs here for sections of her story to come; and as ever, my own story pays a heavy debt to hers._

 _With love (You're still here? It's over… go home…_ _)_

 _MrsVonTrapp x_

* * *

 **Chapter Eight**

' _ **If two lives join, there is oft a scar'**_

* * *

 _ **Interlude: Rob Blythe**_

 _ **Glen St Mary, PEI, April 1984**_

There was not much that would persuade young _Rob-now-not-Robbie_ Blythe away from a day during the Easter break exploring the valley or trying his luck with a line by the harbour, excepting the prospect of a day with Melissa, which invariably also meant a day with her brother.

Michael Carlyle Meredith had long preferred the relaxed refuge of Ingleside to the multi-generational congestion of the Old Manse; he, Mel and their parents had had to take up temporary lodging there, while a brand-new abode was built up the other end of town to house them and their father's new money. While Rob and his parents strolled about the spacious Ingleside, the manse was the current cluttered home of Mike and Mel, their parents, and their grandparents, including incumbent minister Calvin, who was son to old Bruce. Ministers all, going back to Bruce's father John Meredith; except for Mike and Mel's own father, and best not to talk about that.

Mike rather hated the higgledy-piggledy ministerial quarters and frequently moaned about the spartan nature of life there; four months' building work on their house had turned to six, bordering on seven, and he was climbing the unpainted walls. The whole place was not a gift, according to Michael, but a tiresome ball-and-chain; even his own father had to acknowledge the manse was a bit of a death trap, with the stairs and the too-small rooms and the unreliable fireplace. Presbyterian ministers had little money and what they had spent on the place over the years was less professional renovation and more patch-up prayer. Yet the house sat on a fine plot of land, leading to the valley, and at least if the building became too claustrophobic the walk down the slope and out into the open meant you could find God there, if you needed to, or shake him off instead, more like.

Rob had argued it probably wouldn't be prudent for Mike to share the somewhat ironical thought, given his family background, that he might be atheist, or at very least agnostic. Best leave that conversation for now, alongside the one where he was thinking of dropping out of school and the other one that involved joining the Armed Forces. Mike Meredith could be relied upon to follow through with any or none of these schemes; Rob by comparison, steady and dependable and focussed, would probably become some history nut buried in some dusty little archive somewhere, unless the pinprick of Old Judge Jerry's good deeds over the years became more keenly felt. As for Michael, he had bragged many times that if all else failed he could just follow his father into Insurance. Though the Meredith ministers of the previous two generations had rather balked at that – surely insurance wasn't a _career –_ it wasn't even a _trade…_ it was a circus act; the sleight of hand of the magician, convincing, harassing – nay, even _scaring_ people - into buying things they didn't need. Spectacularly failing, of course, to see the correlations apparent in the two professions. But they had underestimated Michael and Melissa's father (Timothy-call-me-Tim) who had the deep baritone of the most persuasive pulpit orator and the cheeky charm of a Cockney chappie on the make, and with the black hair and blue eyes of old Bruce himself, was able to soon shore up this risky new insurance venture into a decent developing business on the rise.

But no one was going to pour money into a house that they were but house-sitting, at the grace-and-favour of God and the parish. For there were no more ministers on the Meredith family horizon after Mike's Grandad finished up, that was for sure.

And thus Michael, complaining he felt too big to breathe properly there, did his eating and sleeping at the manse, and his living and lounging at Rob's.

As was evidenced on this day of so many days, Michael, through a mixture of seventeen year old seniority and selfishness, was taking up the entirety of the sofa whilst Rob and Melissa sunk into a club chair each, or, if checkers or chess drew them, took up residence on the floor.

" _God_ I'm so _bored,_ " Michael now moaned, tossing his comic aside. "It's the term break. How can you guys _stand_ this?"

"How can we stand _you_ more like?" Melissa answered, head not even lifting from her book, and Rob, likewise occupied, gave a silent smirk. "It's Friday. We're all seeing a movie later anyway, aren't we?"

"Well, I know what _you_ two will be seeing," he announced, " _Revenge of the Nerds._ " He gave a pleased chuckle, his look typically a little too malevolent for merely mischievous, arms moving to rest behind his dark head as he leant on one of the many embroidered cushions which mushroomed to multitudes if you weren't looking, and had been passed down the Blythe line by some dextrous needlecrafter or other.

"And I know what _you'll_ be seeing – _Planet of the Apes!_ "

"Sorry, Mel _una_ ," Mike's black eyes flashed. "I don't think that's playing."

Melissa scowled at the oft-repeated play on her names, and Rob shook his head, even as Michael grinned a full-bodied grin, sighing.

"Did someone say they were _bored_ just now?" came an amused voice from the kitchen, to the immediate hasty chorus of denials.

James Blythe, local doctor at large, tall, genial and debonair in the way of Blythe men of the family, hazel-eyed as his son and his own father Sam and with the ruddy curls of his grandfather – another James known as _Jem_ – walked into the lounge, drying his hands on a tea towel, wry grin firmly in place.

"I think you must have misheard me, Uncle Jim," Michael remarked innocently.

"The old hearing certainly isn't what it used to be," Rob's father, hardly fading away at a trim, fit not-quite forty, lamented mock-sadly, shaking his head.

"What's up, Dad?" Rob decided to circumvent a protracted Blythe-Meredith sparring.

"Well, I was just about to make my way to some house calls. One of them will be to the Old Uncles out on the Lowbridge Road. They haven't been able to do much about the place lately, and while I take a look at how Uncle Shirley's leg is doing I might see if you lot can help tidy the place up a bit. It's too much for Uncle Carl by himself."

Michael stifled a groan. "Really, Uncle Jim, what was the old guy _doing_ on the roof in the first place? He must be a hundred."

"The guttering," Melissa explained, with an exasperated look to her brother.

"He's in his eighties, Mike. Hardly ancient these days," James Blythe cautioned mildly. ''Infact, I am frequently annoyed to find that, his recent leg injury aside, Shirley Blythe is insultingly well preserved for a man of his advanced years."

" _And_ a decorated pilot who served in _both_ wars," Rob reminded loyally.

"OK, OK!" Michael sat up, raising both hands in surrender. Rob had forgotten he was touchy regarding their own generations of Merediths – old Uncles Carl and Jerry aside – having been too young to participate in any war, which Rob suspected might have seemed like a mercy but here in the Glen could easily feel like a slur. "I _really_ wish I could help," the obvious insincerity making Rob wonder if Mike would shortly burst into flame, "but I've got a date tonight, and I have to pick her up early."

"We will ensure you have enough time to make yourself beautiful, Mr Meredith," James smirked.

"Well, _I'll_ go, Uncle Jim," Melissa offered graciously. "It's been ages since I saw Uncle Carl." She turned to glare at Michael. "And if _you_ are bringing Karen tonight Rob and I aren't going. Or we will see something in a different theatre."

Rob may have mildly protested at this arrangement, but his attention had been quickly diverted. Where Mel went, he naturally followed.

"Well, yeah, Dad, sure, I'll come."

Michael looked to his sister and then to his cousin. "What's wrong with Karen?"

" _Everything_ ," came the protest in unison.

Not as affronted as one may have expected at this slight, Michael shrugged his shoulders.

"Honestly, it's not as if I'm even _related_ to Shirley."

"Yes we are, you idiot!" Melissa protested. " _Tell_ him, Rob!"

"You're related to Shirley by marriage," Rob explained patiently, and not for the first time. "Your Great Grandad Bruce was half brother to Faith Meredith and to Judge Jerry. They both married Blythes – _my_ Great Grandad Jem to Faith and Nan Blythe to Jerry. And _Shirley_ was brother to Jem and Nan. Therefore, not _directly_ related, but still related."

"You have _way_ too much time on your hands to be figuring all that out," Michael's look was bemused. "It's a little disturbing."

"Just trying to keep the facts straight," Rob replied mildly.

"And _Uncle_ is not just a marker of a relationship, Mike," James chimed. "It's also a term of respect."

"Well if they want _respect_ they should have gone for _sensei,_ " he flashed cheekily. "Wax on, wax off, people."

" _Please_ try that on Shirley Blythe," Mel smirked. "And _please_ may I be around to see it!"

"Uncle Shirley's not _that_ bad," Rob felt compelled to add.

"Well, that's enough commentary from _everyone,_ " James determined. "So Mike, are you with us?

Michael gave an expressive eye roll, with the aggrieved huff to match. "Oh, _alright!_ Let's go rake leaves for the old dudes."

" _I'll_ be raking leaves – _you'll_ be doing the gutters!" Melissa teased with a pleased, arch smile, and Michael gave an agonised groan, turning in time to catch Rob's eye, smiling in exasperation at the sound and the sight of his warm, wry laughter.

XXXXX

The snug little house on the Lowbridge Road was still, after all these years, a determinedly bright burst of sunlight against the landscape, though admittedly the vibrancy of its outer shell had dulled, as a husk of wheat harvested and left to fade. It was certainly situated in a more populous prospect than it had once been, but neighbours were still not so near as in the Glen itself and there was a decided air of serenity about both the property's outlook and its inhabitants. Any visitors here made a conscious decision to come, and so even as Rob's dad pulled up outside there came a figure around the side of the house, ambling of gait yet still spry, carrying a bucket overflowing with weeds. He was elderly and stooped somewhat under the weight of the tin pail, though he sprung back up to full height when he set down his burden and hailed the visitors. _Full height_ was not in fact very tall; even at not quite sixteen, Rob's hazel gaze already hovered at the man's hairline. He reminded Rob of a friendly bird, smiling and bobbing as he shook hands with he, Mike and his father and hugged Melissa, his one eye bright and blue as the deep waters of the gulf.*

"Hi, Uncle Carl," Mel grinned. "Mom sent over this pie for you." Melissa had begged James to double back to the manse on their way, whereby she rushed in to commandeer the first edible confection she could find; leaving a scatty note of apology in rare sibling safeguard lest Michael be later accused of secretly demolishing it.

"Thank you, love. That's grand. A slice of this will go down very nicely." Carl Meredith's smile was wide and typically charming, before it turned more knowing as he regarded Rob's father. "Are you here to see to the patient, Dr Blythe?"

"Indeed I am, Uncle Carl, and this lot are here to see to your garden."

" _Really?_ " Carl took in the open faces of he and Melissa, and the frown Rob knew still hovered about Michael's. "Well that's _very_ welcome. After all the rains over winter and again recently the back of this place looks like the Amazonian jungle. Come in, come in, we'll have a quick drink and then we can get to work!"

He ushered them to the front door and past the small, neat, sunny-hued kitchen and through to the living room, and Rob's eyes were alight to be entering the inner sanctum of these somewhat reclusive uncles, whose presence on the periphery of his life was long accepted but the mild air of mystery surrounding them had always been a tantalising question hovering just out of reach.

Clearly as a Blythe, Rob, his father James and his Grandpa Sam before him were directly related to Shirley, who was the only surviving brother to Great-Grandpa Jem. Jem – the last great Blythe doctor in the Glen before his own father had again taken up the mantle – as he had reminded Mike, had married Faith Meredith, one of two inter-marriages between the families, as Jem and Shirley's sister Nan had married Jerry Meredith, in a ceremony talked about through the Glen, by all accounts, for years after. ** So Rob was related through blood to both Shirley and Carl, and by marriage to the Merediths generally, making him feel as much Meredith as Blythe half the time, depending on the circumstances. And, obviously, through one of those life quirks, he was also related – just distantly enough for decency – to Melissa and Michael as well.

The over-familiar familial ties annoyed Mike and often exasperated Melissa, but Rob enjoyed the interconnection, and the feeling that they were children of an important and far-reaching network, like the soldiers faced with the puzzle of trenches and tunnels he read about of the Great War. He had grown up listening to the effusive war stories of Great Grandpa Jem, Grandpa Sam and Great Great Uncle Jerry, and the quieter, more meditative, occasional thoughts from Carl, though Shirley, both frustratingly and tantalisingly, never spoke about his experiences in either war at all. Most of Rob's free reading – including earlier today – was on both world wars, with which he was unduly fascinated. He longed to travel to the various fields of battle, particularly to walk the once-blasted, now regenerated, countryside of Belgium and France; to follow the footsteps of the many long-ago sons of Empire; to pay respect at the great memorials, from the Menin Gate at Ypres to the Lantern Tower Memorial erected at Ablain St-Nazaire, with its revolving beacon of light shining deep into the landscape every night, keeping a protective flashing eye on the dead, which always made Rob think of the Four Winds light and its efforts to protect the living. He had gone to the charmingly squat and slightly octagonal Kensington Veterans Memorial Musuem, here on the Island, every year since he was twelve, and he still routinely begged for his parents to take him to Ottawa, for no other reason than to attend the Canadian War Museum and the national Headquarters of the Royal Canadian Legion, with its Wall of Remembrance, and to run a wondering, reverent hand along the 11-foot stainless steel sword adorning it.

On a visit to Charlottetown years ago, Uncle Jerry had once spent so long proudly reliving his memories of his trip to France for the dedication of the Canadian National Vimy Memorial at Vimy Ridge, complete with extensive slides to accompany every step of the journey (and surely twenty alone just on the new and ever brief King, Edward VIII) that they both missed lunch and afternoon tea, and were ignored by the rest of the household, who had quite forgotten they had sequestered themselves in the library. ****

And one couldn't forget Walter, the missing brother of Jem and Shirley both, who had fallen at Courcelette. Rob would trace his long fingers over his name among the 11,169 ***missing at the Vimy Memorial as Jem and Nan and Jerry had done; a Blythe touching a Blythe, and make his own silent vow to always remember.

But here, now, were living veterans before him, and he tried to keep his grin contained as they greeted Uncle Shirley. Uncle Shirley, who had flown in both wars; who had been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross in WW1; who had done great, mysterious things in WW2 and who in the first war had _jumped out of his own plane_ as it crashed before astonished onlookers, physically walking away from the wreckage. He was legend come to life; an urban myth made real. It came then as no surprise that this man would then break his leg in a fall from a ladder, and rather than phone around for his housemate Carl or an ambulance or even Rob's doctor father, would instead drag himself to his pick up and drive himself to hospital, though by the time he arrived at emergency he could do nothing but honk his horn in loud affront for some gobsmacked, unfortunate nurse to come and assist him.

"Hi, Uncle Shirley," Rob now greeted; the only one of them finding his voice.

A tall man sat, back ramrod-straight despite the invitation of the recliner to _recline_ , steel-gray hair over a face whose wrinkles only served to frame penetrating brown eyes observant under heavy brows. Still broad-shouldered and intimidating, even from behind his newspaper, * he was adorned in undershirt and dressing gown, with only shorts accompanying one long tanned leg, the other encased in a white cast from thigh to calf. He gave them the concession of lowering his newspaper, though his face remained impassive to their presence, barring a slight twitch of his lips, and something glimmering in his eyes which one hoped was amusement but might just as easily have been annoyance.

"Well, hello there."

"Hi Uncle Shirley," his dad offered, extending a long-fingered, large Blythe hand to match the one that met it. "I've come to see how you're doing and to offer you some free, unskilled labour."

This encouraged a raised brow, though those eyes were still watchful as Rob and then Michael shook hands and Melissa, in a singularly spirited act of bravery, gave him a careful peck on the cheek.

"Well, that _is_ interesting news. How does the unskilled labour feel about that?"

"Oh, all good, Uncle Shirley," Rob heard himself chirp sycophantically, not daring to note Mel's suppressed eye roll or Mike's lingering glower.

It seemed they were all rescued by Carl's fond chuckle as he clapped Mike on the back.

"We won't look a gift horse in the mouth," Carl continued merrily. "Though Shirley is rather sorry that his dancing days might be behind him," there was a twinkle in Carl's one eye as he said this, and Shirley's lips twitched again.

"Everyone, sit, _sit!_ " Carl gestured enthusiastically to a sofa and an armchair, though Mike's black eyebrows angled themselves in dare to Rob to take the other matching tan leather recliner."I'll pop the pie on to warm and rustle up some tea and lemonade."

"I'll help, Uncle Carl!" Mel was out of her seat in a flash, having been about to settle herself rather close to Rob on the sofa that the three of them would share, and his fleeting look of disappointment was registered by Shirley with a subtle shake of his head.

His dad and Shirley passed the time in pleasant if perfunctory conversation, whilst Rob looked about the room, noting the half dozen birthday cards propped between various framed photographs on the mantelpiece, though he didn't know _whose_ birthday and didn't dare ask. The bookshelf was smaller than Ingleside's in dimensions, but it's volume-to-shelf ratio was absolutely comparable, and Rob wondered if it was a Blythe trait or a Meredith one, or a rare symbiosis of the two, which saw all their shelves teeming with tomes. Here was an eclectic feast; from numerous studies on the natural history of Canada and every ornithological book imaginable; to not one but two identical copies of some not very inspiring-looking botany text called _Leaves of Grass;_ to Greek mythology; to names he didn't know well, like Walden and Eliot and Spenser, and ones that he did, such as Hemingway; to some engineering and aviation texts; and finally to a succession of neatly stacked magazines, including _National Geographic_ and possibly every _Aerial Age Weekly_ ever printed.

Rob turned back suddenly to Mike, expecting him to be feigning sleep in his boredom, only to look straight into his stare. Half a beat later those black eyes crossed themselves in his usual _court jester_ shtick and he made to look like he was falling off the sofa having succumbed to staged narcolepsy, but then unexpectedly followed Rob as he got up to look closer at the photographs on the mantle, wishing there were any in war uniform. He had to settle for the still diverting images of another time; young Shirley Blythe standing on a barren strip of land, beside an old plane that looked so vintage it might have belonged to the Wright brothers; another of older Shirley, pictured with a snub-nosed, striped plane and a trio of boys he knew to be his curly-haired grandfather Sam, his brother Wally and the tall, golden-haired Gil Ford from Toronto; and probably his favourite, of Carl captaining his boat, golden-brown hair the color of Mel's caught by the breeze, laughing up at the camera, or at least the person behind it. His gaze moved to the wedding photo of grinning Great Uncle Jerry and Auntie Nan, pictured on the steps of Ingleside, the entire population of the Glen, it seemed, surrounding them, Carl distinctive and dapper as one of the wedding party, and Shirley head and shoulders above all in the milling crowd of friends and extended family. ** Finally, his gaze lit on a slightly older Shirley and Carl, joyously pictured either side of a tiny, dark-haired lady in a smart suit, still winsome of expression, who Rob immediately recognised as Auntie Una, Mel's namesake.

"He actually _could_ smile!" Mike breathed low, indicating the image of Shirley, and then louder to those who had just entered with refreshments, "You were a handsome devil, Uncle Carl. Er, you too, Uncle Shirley."

"What do you mean _were?_ " Carl tittered, setting down a tray and beginning to pour tea as Mel passed around plates, lemonade to the boys and a biscuit tin of what was possibly homemade shortbread. As Mel sat back down Mike relaxed himself next to her, taking over his own previous seat and flashing a deliberately knowing grin to Rob's own tight-lipped grimace.

"So, you kids on holidays, then?" Carl began conversationally. "Aren't you graduating soon, Michael?"

"That's the plan, Uncle Carl," Michael replied smoothly.

"Well, that would involve actual _studying,_ Uncle Carl," Mel interjected airily.

Carl diplomatically bypassed the jibe.

"What have you thought you might like to do?"

"I might take a year off to contemplate things," Mike offered seriously. "Work part time for Dad in the office, travel a bit. The rest of your life… it's a big decision."

Carl nodded with the solemnity due this pronouncement from the lips of a seventeen year old. Rob contemplated that when Uncle Carl was seventeen, his major decision would have been what uniform he would be wearing, if the war were to last another year.

"Where would you like to travel to, Mike?" James Blythe asked conversationally.

"Oh, perhaps across the border, down the west coast to California, LA, San Francisco…" Michael gave the time honoured answer of just about every second teenager in North America.

" _I'd_ chase some proper sun," Melissa interjected with her winning enthusiasm. "Hawaii, or somewhere in the Mediterranean."

Rob very much tried not to imagine Melissa in those assorted sundrenched climes, particularly in the pink bikini she had debuted the previous summer.

"And what about you, young Master Blythe?" Carl encouraged.

Rob felt himself redden, unsure if he should be completely honest, and take the conversation on a potentially downward spiral, if not a complete death dive, or whether to give an easy, glib answer.

"Ah, Uncle Carl, I'd choose Europe," Rob offered carefully, flushing. "Particularly, ah, France, and maybe Belgium… the war memorials, you know."

Indeed he knew they _did_ know, they and their comrades having been bombarded with bombs and gas and mud on the ground, or blasted clear out of the sky. Their blood and the blood of an entire generation, watering those famous fields of Flanders, Hill 145 and the trenches of the Somme.

When there was a long silence, Rob tried to fill it with as many halting words as possible.

"Ah… to visit the Canadian Memorial at Vimy Ridge, naturally…" he stumbled. "And the Arras Flying Services Memorial…" he flicked a glance at Shirley here, "and the five Newfoundland caribou memorials and…"

"You've certainly done your research," Shirley's deep, irony-inflected voice entered the conversation.

Rob cleared his throat. "Ah… yes, Sir."

"I didn't know your interest had developed so much." The statement seemed too tempered for admiration and yet too firm for mere curiosity.

"Ah, yes – I mean, no, Sir." He felt his cheeks flushing, and the weight of the eyes of the room upon him.

"I believe Rob's eighteenth birthday request won't be a car but a plane ticket," Rob's father added, with a stab at humour.

"Uncle Jerry showed me lots of slides, once, of his trip with Great Grandpa Jem, back to France, and to the Vimy Memorial and…" Rob tapered off at the expression on Shirley's still-tanned face, which was darkening by degrees, and his own face reddened further in welling misery. Damn, he _knew_ he shouldn't have mentioned the war stuff.

"Have you ever been back to the Memorial, Uncle Carl?" Melissa asked gently in unexpected rescue, and Rob flashed her a look of gratitude.

"Er, no," Carl admitted carefully, glancing himself at Shirley's too-still face, and then added with slightly forced levity, "I saw rather enough of the French countryside the first time. But then, Jerry's _many_ slides do make you feel like you're right there."

There were polite smiles at this, and it seemed that the awkward moment had passed.

"I've seen it," Shirley offered, so unexpectedly that Rob's glass nearly went crashing to the floor. "Quite a few times."

"Y…es, Sir," Rob stammered, watching as the quiver crossed his glowering brow, wondering if he would offer anything more.

Several leaden moments passed, each feeling like a year.

"I never saw much of anything in that war except from the clouds," Shirley offered carefully. "All the memorial sites are important, certainly. But… don't forget Paris. Everyone should have Paris at least once in their life, you know."

Rob's father nodded at this dispensed wisdom. Mike and Mel beside him had fallen into a rather awed silence. Uncle Carl was grinning ear to ear, blue eye very bright, as he topped up everyone's tea.

"Paris is always a good idea. Isn't that what they say?" **** Carl chuckled.

"I'll remember, Uncle Shirley," Rob remarked gravely, as if this was advice from the Oracle.

The nod and the resolute gaze that came in reply was firm, brief and unmistakably Blythe.

XXXXX

As his dad remained with Shirley inside to examine him and talk over how he was doing with his leg, the rest of them trooped outside onto the porch and down to the pretty back garden, which was not quite the overgrown tangle Carl had alluded to, but would benefit from a little additional manpower all the same.

He and Mike, as Mel had predicted, were assigned to tackle the gutters, with strict instructions to do so little by little, to not overreach themselves and to have one of them holding the ladder at all times.

Mike clambered up first, after having dressed himself in the offered gardening gloves with more ceremony than a surgeon snapping on the latex, his black eyes flashing with merriment as he sent fistfuls of wet leaves and other debris raining down on Rob below.

"Hey, swap!" Rob called up to him after a time.

"Huh?"

''I'm sick of holding the damn ladder."

With a sigh of impatience that would have done Shirley proud, Mike made his way down, taking the gloves off with rather less care than before and then whacking Rob on the shoulder with them.

"Suit yourself."

They adjusted their position further round the house and Rob climbed the ladder gamely, making sure he was high enough to come into Mel's direct line of sight, giving her a cheeky wave once her eyes strayed in his general direction, earning a ' _Watch it!'_ from Michael lest he overbalance and go the way of Shirley before him.

Rob frequently glanced back to find Mel sadly oblivious to any of his further attentions, engaged in an animated little tete-a-tete with Carl, arm in arm, which seemed to involve a tour of the vegetable garden and perusal of the large, luscious-looking pear trees by the back fence and not much else. But looking down he always met a pair of black eyes staring back up at him with a new, surprising intensity, and he flexed his swiftly tired shoulder muscles in lieu of any conversation starters having fled him.

" _Swap!"_ Mike called up.

Rob was more than grateful to make his way back to earth, and he leant against the ladder as he exchanged gloves with Mike yet again, wiping his glistening forehead with his t shirt sleeve. He noted the strange look to Michael's face, as he opened his mouth, closed it again, and shook his head, as if in disagreement with himself.

"What's up?" Rob questioned.

Michael paused, his hand on the first rung, and turned back to him.

"You know what they say at school about them," Mike ventured.

"Who?"

Mike's eyes furtively strayed to Carl and Mel and then swept back to Rob. "The old uncles, of course."

Rob felt his brows pull together.

"What? What do you mean?"

Mike looked around him carefully before answering, and his voice lowered appropriately.

"That they're both… _you know._ "

Rob rolled his eyes. "I _don't_ know. That's why I'm _asking!_ "

"God, _young master Blythe,_ do I have to draw you a picture? That they've been _on together_ for years… That, you know, they're… _gay._ " He ended the sentence on a whisper.

" _What?_ "

"Jesus, keep your voice down!"

Rob clamped his lips together.

"Look, I'm just preparing you, that's all," Michael huffed. "You and Mel will be moving into the senior levels next year, and you might, um, hear some stuff, occasionally."

Rob's wayward brows now flew up in response. "That's such rubbish!" he scoffed. "They're _friends._ Buddies. They grew up together."

"Two buddies who never, _ever_ married…" Mike raised his own black brow suggestively.

"Yeah, 'cos _that's_ a federal offence."

"And they have lived together on their own _forever…_ "Mike rolled his eyes.

"Yep, two old guys sharing a house. That's _never_ happened before."

"They weren't _always_ old…" those black Meredith eyes flashed knowingly.

Rob felt the slow burn of his indignation, alongside the bead of sweat that worried its way down the back of his neck and into his collar. What Michael was alluding to was dangerous, and while not illegal some would have that it was definitely immoral. Young Rob Blythe was a very _live and let live_ kind of guy, with an ingrained sense of justice, and didn't believe any of that occasional _fire and brimstone_ talk you would hear. But discussion of sexuality generally was just another thing to add to the complication of his fast-growing body and his haphazard hormones, not to mention the disturbing fact of his own feelings, and hazel eyes which turned to Melissa and could not hide their growing interest and regard.

But all this in the same breath as a discussion about the benign _old uncles_ was just insanity, and Rob turned his own worry and frustration onto the nearest target.

"I would have thought better of you, Mike!" he hissed. "Passing on nasty rumours like that. That's bloody _defamation!_ Do you wanna share your thoughts with Shirley? You know he could _still_ kick your butt into next week, even with his broken leg and his mangled hand… And I just want to be here when you say something about Carl in front of _Mel,_ because that would _really_ be something to – "

"Hey! _Hey!_ " Michael's swarthy face had turned pale, and he was furiously waving his hands in front of him. "Settle _down."_ Black eyes had grown wide. _"_ I'm sorry, alright?"

Rob swallowed the last of his retort, breathing heavily. The vehemence of his vocal reaction had evidently shocked Mike and he had perhaps even surprised himself.

"Sorry." Mike laid a hand on his arm, looking uncharacteristically shaken.

"Maybe _I'm_ not the one you should be saying it to."

"Maybe not. But I _am_." He gave Rob's bicep a squeeze, his expression earnest.

Rob's hands had gone to his hips, and he expelled a long breath.

"What if those same idiots were saying something about _you,_ Mike?"

" _What?_ " Mike quailed, looking aghast to Rob, and then to his hand, which he dropped back to his side, almost guiltily. "What are they saying?"

"Nothing! I'm just giving it as an example!"

"Oh."

"Well?"

"Well _what?"_

"Two old guys, _both_ of whom you're related to, who can't defend themselves and shouldn't _have_ to. Way to go there, Meredith."

Mike scowled at that. "Don't beat this up, Rob! And don't be a bloody arrogant Blythe ass over it!"

At that inopportune moment Uncle Shirley reappeared, in striped flannelette pyjama bottoms with a slit down one leg, replacing the shorts. His good hand clutched a rather handsome cane and the other ensured his tightly knotted dressing gown remained decently closed. His still-sharp brown eyes, which had seen, Rob had often mused, more terror and pain and suffering than anyone had cause to in one lifetime, looked around him with a lightness to their dark depths, echoed in the soft smile he gave in the direction of Carl, who had just leaned in to say something that had made Mel laugh.

Rob's pulse quickened. He shouldn't be reading so much into things. It was Mike and it was all this stupid innuendo. But it also _wasn't._ It was not just the mere fact of Old Uncle Shirley smiling, which was a rare and surprising enough event at the best of times, but that his entire _being_ relaxed itself, and seemed to stretch out towards Carl in silent communion. Rob _knew_ that look. It was the look his Grandpa Sam gave Grandma Zoe; it was the look his Dad gave his Mum. It was the look he felt every time he gazed upon Mel, beating the longing behind it back down, lest his heart explode with the ever-expanding fullness of it.

Rob swallowed, and darted a guilty hazel glance towards Mike, whose face was tight lipped and impassive. He could almost feel the heat of Uncle Shirley's frowning contemplation, the softness having quickly melted as that uncompromising look swept back over them, like a searchlight seeking captives.

James Blythe joined Shirley, and then they both alternatively strolled and hobbled to the far corner of the garden towards Uncle Carl and Mel. Rob watched them with eyes that seemed properly open for the first time. If it were _true_ then that was… he frowned. He didn't _know_ what it was. No one could look at Shirley and Carl and think anything immoral. On the contrary, no one could look at them and not see the underlying thread of affection. But where Rob had always presumed deep friendship, had he also been seeing something else?

He remembered himself and cleared his throat, murmuring in a voice as low as he could manage, his face flushing with the words.

"I don't care what anyone says... The uncles are great. Whatever the story is… it _doesn't_ matter. It _shouldn't_ matter."

Mike's smile was twisted, and there was an edge of something Rob couldn't quite define in his answer.

"They are two different things, Rob, my man. And I wish either of them were true."

Behind them, Carl announced their break for pie, with a voice that was like a bird-call echoing across the valley. Michael's look was pained as he threw down the gloves, shoved his hands into his jeans, and with long strides was the first to make his way back inside the little house.

* * *

Rob sat with Tessa on the sofa, as they smiled at one another stupidly, their current circumstances an embarrassing echo of the previous day's events.

"Hi," Rob finally managed, his lips turning up at the corners in sheepish amusement.

"Hi," Tessa quirked a knowing smile.

"Are you… OK? Are _things_ OK?"

"Do you mean, did I survive my mortifying breakfast conversation with my daughter?" Tessa's brown eyes twinkled; hot chocolate, with a dash of cream.

"Something of that nature…"

"Well…" she sighed, and the briefest cloud passed over her still-smooth brow. "I think the answer to that is… _mostly._ You?"

Rob's smile was wry. "I would have to concur with those findings."

Tessa nodded, and looked down at her hands.

"I wonder what happens now?" she murmured, a little hesitantly.

Rob looked down to his own hands, to his signet ring; gold initials winking at him on a bed of onyx. "I've consulted my research…" he mused slowly, "and I think… _this."_

His large brown hand reached for hers, and brought the palm up to his lips, next moving the focus of his mouth to Tessa's own. Their kiss was long and almost chaste, excepting the mutual look of smoke and smoulder when it ended.

"Your lovely Maddie Meredith…" Tessa breathed, "has invited Anne for a sleepover tomorrow night."

''Really?" hazel eyes sparked with interest. "That is… an intriguing development."

"Yes… I thought so, too."

"I'd hate for you to be lonely, here in town by yourself."

Tessa smiled at the game; the suggestion of suggestiveness in their new shorthand. "Well, I'm quite self sufficient, though I hate to dine alone."

"Would you… like some company tomorrow night?"

A different smile curled itself around Tessa's lips. "Dinner is all well and good, but I find that _breakfast_ is actually, ah, the most important meal of the day."

Rob's grin was all the response required, and certainly all the response they had time for; a herd of elephants was descending the Ingleside stairs, thunderous in their approach.

"Dad! Tessa!" David appeared in front of them, with a look of schoolboyish excitement, and Anne's high color a startling accompaniment. "We have something to show you!"

"And a lot of things to ask you!" Anne bubbled beside him.

"Oh?" Rob exchanged a bemused look with Tessa.

"Shirley Blythe," David announced. "Great Uncle _Shirley Blythe."_

"Great _Great_ Uncle to you, Rob," Anne corrected.

"Yes, he was," Rob looked from his son to Tessa's daughter, trying to read their expressions as the lawyer he was, and felt a puzzlement even as he tried to hang on firmly to his smile; until he saw that Anne clutched a particular volume, and his smile slipped; its distinctive green cover unmissable… and unmistakeable.

* * *

Rob Blythe held the unopened letter in a hand that David noted was not as steady as usual/

''Just… let's slow down a moment," Rob directed. "Take me through this again. One at a time."

Anne's look flickered to David, passing the lead to him, though he could see she was perturbed, for really they had only gotten to producing the Whitman, let alone the contents of the letter, before his dad's complexion began to mirror the color of its cover.

"Well, Dad, yesterday, Anne and I did some family research, as you know," David began to explain. "We explored the attic, sorted through what was there and took down some boxes. We had a break for lunch and then I went back up to my room for a final stab at study but didn't last very long, and I came back downstairs and…"

"I was at your bookshelf, Rob," Anne interrupted him, glancing at David, before continuing the narrative gamely. "It's a beautiful home library – I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb it. I was perhaps looking for Keats but mostly I was, ah, just looking. I hadn't even taken anything down. But I came across the Whitman… I'd heard of him but wasn't really familiar with his work. Well, except for the film, ah you know, _Dead Poets Society_ …" Anne trailed off at the haunted look that crossed his father's face at this, his dark brows drawing together.

Tessa had evidently noted his change in expression, too. "Anne, really, you had no business going through anything of the Blythes," she chastised.

The hurt filtered across Anne's face, and David could feel her bristle beside him.

"All respect, Tessa, I told her she could look at anything she wanted," he defended, moving imperceptibly closer to Anne but really wishing he could do something more reassuring, such as put his arm around her. To his father, he added, "we weren't doing anything wrong, Dad. Anne was flicking through the Whitman, I came down and asked her what it was, and we were almost about to put it back on the shelf when the letter literally fell out at our feet."

His father, usually so quick off the mark, took a worrying amount of time to process this, blinking as if to clear his mind several times.

"Anne, don't get me wrong. You are welcome to anything here," Rob recovered himself slightly. "I only… that is, the copy of the Whitman belonged to Melissa, David's mother. It was a special gift to her, and she read it frequently, particularly when…" Rob cleared his throat, "that is, when she was undergoing cancer treatment." He looked to swallow carefully, and then glanced up at David. "You didn't remember?"

"I did later," David murmured quietly, his eyes shadowed and the sorry heat flooding his face. "But… not at first."

His dad looked like he might say something about this, but then paused and nodded to himself. "You might not have known how much. I forget you were away at Redmond."

David pursed his lips, and Anne looked up to him, her eyes mournful.

Tessa's own expression was closing in on itself as Rob continued.

"This was with Mel – ah, my wife Melissa – when she died," Rob tapped the cover of _Leaves of Grass_ , which Anne had given over to him as _Exhibit A,_ his voice turning to a hoarse rumble. "I haven't even opened it since that day." He stared at the Whitman, as if a little afraid of it. "I couldn't bear to… I stuck it back on the shelf. I don't know anything about any letter or letters she kept in it."

"There was… just this one," David clarified, his own voice a little unreliable.

"Where was it?" Rob looked up suddenly, his question sharp. "Where did you find it?"

"Sorry, Dad?"

"Which poem did it bookmark?" Rob opened the volume carefully and began to turn pages rapidly. "Which section?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. I was holding it at the time but I didn't see where the letter slipped from."

"Um, towards the middle…" Anne interjected. "I… I remember reading, um…" she began to color magnificently, "some of… Book IV… and I… I didn't come across a letter before that, so I think… a little bit after that…" Anne's cheeks had turned as scarlet as when David had happened upon her the previous day, and glancing at her he made a mental note to go back over this _Book Four_ business.

Rob's long fingers had still been turning during Anne's explanation.

"Maybe _Calamus…_ " he muttered to himself, stopping at the start of that section before closing it with resolution, giving a bleak little chuckle. " _That_ figures."

Rob had balanced the letter on one knee while he looked at the volume, but now Whitman was relegated to the coffee table and he picked up the folded page again. Worn and worn again, and slightly discoloured, but cared for; _cherished._ David saw how the historian in his dad looked and noted these things, and also how the _man_ paused, on the threshold.

"You've read this? _Both_ of you?"

He and Anne nodded together in silence.

Rob leant over, made sure the coffee table was not hiding any stray stains, gently pushed aside the Whitman and unfolded the letter. David thought he might prefer to ponder it with white gloves on, so careful was he in unveiling it to the world.

Anne and he leaned over; Tessa leaned in; everyone seemed to read whilst holding a collected breath.

Finished, his father leaned back on the sofa. Tessa looked to Dad; he and Anne looked to each other.

"Pretty remarkable…" David offered to his father's stunned silence.

"Yes…" Rob managed.

"It's a beautiful letter…" Anne looked engagingly misty-eyed. "A love letter, really, that wants to be a leaving letter."

"Yes…" his father had evidently run out of more varied responses.

"Shirley…" he ventured, with as much delicacy as a doctor giving a diagnosis. "Dad, we think… we believe…that he was gay."

"Yes," Rob answered without ceremony.

David's felt his eyes widen to proverbial saucers; he exchanged a glance with a similarly agog Anne.

"You _knew_ this?" David gulped.

"Yes."

Anne opened her mouth to speak, but seemed to look at her mother and think better of it.

"He was writing at the end of the war… to _Kit,_ " he pressed, feeling he had just fallen down the rabbit hole. "Who was… a _man_?"

"Yes." Rob raised a slightly challenging eyebrow.

"And Ma had this letter… which means _she_ had to have known _Kit._ "

"Yes…" Rob, more anguished now, rubbed a suddenly tired hand through his hair, and then his fingers strayed, as they always did, to his signet ring.

" _You_ knew… _Kit…_ too?"

"Yes, of course."

David looked to Anne in bewilderment, and she gave a slight shoulder lift in hopeless reply.

"Then Dad… unless it's a terrible secret, can we ask who on earth Kit actually _was_?"

His father started to laugh unexpectedly, shaking his head.

"Oh, how he would have loved _this_ little play, you know…" Rob smiled, crossing his arms. "He had a delightful, impish humour, really. All the family did, in their way. _He_ certainly needed to, in order to draw out old Shirley, that's for sure."

David felt a concern for his father's mental health in that moment, to be so blasé about these rather extraordinary revelations, but Anne had a feverish look about her he was beginning to recognise; the sense of a challenge, as if her mind was racing, her memory running through a forested tangle of family trees.

"Shirley never married…" she mused suddenly. "Did _Kit?_ "

Rob raised an eyebrow, his look to Anne more than a mite impressed. "That's an excellent question. Pull up a seat, Anne."

Anne did as bid, her grey eyes alive with alluring glints of green, and mesmerised though he was by this, David's hands strayed to his hips impatiently. " _Or,_ you could just _tell_ us, Dad!"

"Where would the fun be in that?" his father smirked, infuriatingly, and David took his own seat in a chair, expelling a breath.

" _All the family did…"_ Anne echoed, her look growing thoughtful. " _You_ knew the family, Rob. And so did _Kit_ know yours _._ Shirley talks of weddings, of standing beside Kit as a Best Man – as a best _friend_ would. Which family here would be such great friends with the Blythes?"

Rob's smile was soft, and his hazel eyes watched her carefully.

" _Merediths,"_ Anne and David ascertained together.

"Which Meredith at the time was unmarried?" David continued thinking aloud, making his own logical conclusions, leaping back up to cross to the table and the copies of the family trees. He withdrew the Meredith page, ferrying it back to where they congregated around the sofa.

"Careful, there," his dad cautioned, as David laid it on the table.

Anne's hair brushed him as she bent to the page, auburn brows drawn together, and she began to count on her fingers as they located the right branch.

"Jerry Meredith married Nan Blythe, so he's out."

"In a manner of speaking…" David smirked, looking to see that _both_ his father and Anne were rolling their eyes at him, whilst Tessa shook her head in amusement.

"So that leaves Bruce or Carl…" David continued. "They're the males left. Bruce went into the ministry – he's my great great grandad on Ma's side. I mean, he married himself, but he could have become a minister first if he was nursing a broken heart…"

"David, Bruce Meredith was aged _eleven_ in 1919," his father responded wryly, having leant over himself to confirm this fact. "That's the date of Shirley's letter. So I hardly think so."

"Well, then – it's Thomas Carlyle Meredith. _Carl._ He _has_ to be _Kit_. The only one of that generation not to marry, if we're going with that 's best friend, similar age, just a walk through the valley and over to the Old Manse."

Rob's smile flittered across his face. "So that would be your conclusion?" he challenged both his son and Anne.

"It would make the most sense," Anne piped up. "Particularly if the copy of Shirley's letter was found in the Whitman, and the Whitman was given to David's mother. A Meredith would be likely to give such a gift to another Meredith."

"Indeed, _Counsellor_ ," his father grinned at Anne; one that she returned.

"Carl… how do you get _Kit_ from Carl?" he puzzled. "Did Shirley have a nickname too?"

This made his father laugh outrageously.

"Oh good God, David! He wasn't a _nickname_ sort of guy. And I think _Shirley_ was enough for the poor man, don't you?"

"Probably. It seems to go with the territory that Blythes get the great names," he found himself grumbling.

"Well, you know _my_ thoughts on _Gerald_ ," Tessa gave him a warm smile.

"The name!" Anne breathed beside him, launching out of her chair as if rocket-fuelled. She clambered over to the dining table, taking another of the family tree spreadsheets, and walked back with it, her steps slow as she perused it as she went. " _Thomas Carlyle…"_ she looked wonderingly at his father. "I was trying to understand that yesterday. Grandad Tom was christened Thomas Carlyle."

"A Meredith _name?_ " David called back to Anne, and then noted Tessa begin looking from his dad to her daughter earnestly.

Rob smiled at her discovery. "Why is _any_ name given?" Rob answered, a little sadly, "except to honour those who have come before, either directly… or _indirectly?_ "

Anne's grey-green eyes widened at the clue.

" _Indirectly…"_ Anne repeated, too excited to sit, though she placed the sheet reverently on top of the Meredith one. " _Thomas Carlyle_ Ford _was_ a tribute to _Thomas Carlyle Meredith…_ but also to someone else… someone close to him, to _both_ of them… "

"Yes," Rob affirmed. "Most definitely."

"I thought it was because… Great Grandad Gil was stationed with him in the war, or they bonded through flying… but Thomas Carlyle – Carl Meredith - wasn't the pilot. _Shirley Blythe_ was."

"A bit hard on everyone to name a son _Shirley,_ though," Rob's look had become teasing. "Especially _again._ "

Anne grinned in return. "Most definitely!"

"Carl Meredith… Grandad Tom has _his_ name?" Tessa sighed. "He's named in honour of _both._ That's just beautiful. Does he _know,_ Rob? Does he know any of this?"

"Most definitely…" Rob continued the joke. "He got his wings from training with his father Gil Ford, who got _his_ from training with Shirley… as did my Grandpa Sam as well. So _your_ Grandad became a talisman, Anne, and your Great Grandad Gil was the conduit. _You're_ part of this story, too."

David thought the radiant look on Anne's face at this was a thing of such beauty it caught his breath; the girl who had decried any link to Islanders only days ago was finding comfort in connection.

"Of course, so is _this_ great lug," Rob cast a fond look across to his son.

"So this great lug _what?_ " David rolled his eyes, covering his distraction over Anne.

" _You're_ part of this story too, you know." Rob set aside the Ford and Meredith trees on a spare chair, so carefully, and drew the Whitman back to him. "If you had only looked at the other _evidence_ in front of you." He shook his head indulgently, flipping open the Whitman, and turning reverently over to the title page, revealing a handwritten inscription.

 _Dearest Melissa_

 _There have been three comforts for me in this twilight time; the view of the gulf and the shrill of the birds, the sharing of Whitman and of stories, and your visits with me. You are Bruce's great-grand-daughter but I also claim you for mine, now and always._

 _Have this, with my love and the love of us both, in honour of another in so many great Meredith-Blythe partnerships, and of your little co-production. May he carry the best of both our families in him. And may he get to know all our stories, both those from long, long ago and the ones not yet written._

" _To one a century hence or any number of centuries hence,  
To you yet unborn these, seeking you.  
When you read these I that was visible am become invisible,  
Now it is you, compact, visible, realizing my poems, seeking me,  
Fancying how happy you were if I could be with you and become your comrade;  
Be it as if I were with you. (Be not too certain but I am now with you.)" _ *****

Love, your dancing partner,

TCM

August, 1997

David stared down at the words. He knew vaguely that Tessa's eyes glimmered suspiciously; that his father's eyes were on him; that Anne had to dam her river of tears with a wad of tissues she sought from the kitchen; but al he was capable of was trying his hardest to process the words.

"They were discussing _me…_ " he announced thickly, after a time.

Rob's smile to him was gentle. "Yes, son. Your mother found out we were expecting a boy, but she didn't tell anyone… or at least, I _thought_ at the time she hadn't… but here, Carl knew, two months before you were born." He shook his head wryly. "Typical Mel."

David nodded, and struggled very definitely with his next words.

"Ma said that… to me… before she died…" He cleared his throat. "She said _that_ … the quote. _Be it as if I were with you._ "

Rob nodded, seeming to seek a way to lighten the cloud that was darkening David's features, and his tone was lighter, too. "Again, knowing your mother, I don't know if that was a threat or a promise."

It worked; all smiled despite themselves; David himself gave a pained chuckle.

"David, those words – they weren't the only things left to you." David looked to his father, worrying his signet ring again, his brows drawn together, as if in hushed conference with themselves.

"Dad?"

"I wasn't going to bring this up, naturally, until your birthday in October…"

All eyes were on Rob now, and he frowned to himself, as the agog gallery waited patiently.

"Ah, when your Great Great _Great_ Uncle Carl died, there were only a few of the new generation of Merediths and Blythes about… and _Fords,_ " he flicked a smile at Anne. "Carl was closest to those here on the Island, though he left a number of things to your Grandad, Anne, and to your Great Grandad Gil Ford, and Shirley before him had done the same, I believe. Carl had lived a long life; modestly, but comfortably… he had some money, and left this to various charitable causes – local wildlife funds and the like; a little here to the Glen Presbyterian church, for their outreach programs; some to the Aged Care Home up at Four Winds; a little to your Uncle Mike, who had Megan by then, with Max just on the way… and his house, his and _Shirley's_ house, he left to your mother. And your mother left it to _you."_

"A _house_?"

Rob shifted in his seat.

" _Their_ house. His and Shirley's. Their home for forty years or more. You talk, son, of _marriages…_ of Carl and Shirley never marrying… but what you must understand is that _theirs_ was a marriage, in every way that matters, pieces of paper aside. _Sickness and health, better or worse…_ There were no vows in a church or in front of anyone save perhaps themselves, but you'd better believe it, they were bound together, irrefutably."

" _Cleaved…_ " Anne whispered, as David's stricken eyes took in his dad's kind nod and Tessa's tremulous smile.

David rose slowly from the chair, arms crossed in front of his chest, his face a whirl of incredulity.

"A _house._ Ma left me Carl and Shirley's _house?_ "

David felt his father's eyes follow him as he began to pace the room, as if measuring his concern with every footstep.

"For when you turned twenty-one, David," Rob clarified. "A few years ago, you were still a teen, just embarked on your course at Redmond. It would have been too much to tell you about it then. Really, it's been too much for _me._ It's been in the hands of the real estate agents; the same ones your Ma appointed all those years ago, when you were born. It's been rented out all that time; a modest sum, for families, as it's a ways out of town, between here and Lowbridge. But it's helped pay for college for you; some of it towards your Ma's treatment, too. It will be yours, David, come a couple of months' time… the rent could be towards expenses during your medical degree perhaps, or board, or whatever. I won't interfere with anything regarding your future decision about it, except to say, it was a special house, and a lot of love resided there, and to be mindful of that."

David knew his expression was a catalogue of conflicting emotions.

"It's the house on the Lowbridge Road, isn't it?" he croaked.

"Yes, son. You might remember we would visit occasionally, to inspect the place, but mostly we've left it alone."

"With the pear trees."

"That's right."

"Dad… I'm sorry. I know you and Ma meant well. But… I can't have that house."

With that he excused himself and all but flung himself out the front door, to the bewildered looks of the trio left behind.

* * *

With a flummoxed apology to Anne and Tessa, Rob made motion to follow his son.

Anne was breathing heavily, shocked to the core not at his words, though there was some surprise in them, but his look as he read about his mother… and of himself. His haunted look back to them as he pushed out the door… _would she ever forget Gilbert's face?_ She blinked back the blurry vision, of _his face white to the lips, and his eyes..._. ****** How did Gilbert get in there? She knew nothing of Gilbert. Didn't she mean _Ken_? Or…

"Rob!" she called shakily, as he was about to push through the door himself.

"Anne?"

She walked to meet him at the entranceway.

"Rob… would you mind… if _I_ went?"

"If _you_ went, Anne? To David?"

"Yes. I…" she hesitated, swallowing. How was she to explain? That she knew that face from before and knew how to comfort it? That she might talk to him now when she didn't even know what she would say? She didn't know what she was doing. Only… there had been times when she should have gone after him, and didn't. So many times. Or when she should have said something, and didn't. Or when she shouldn't have said anything at all… " _you've spoiled everything…You must never speak to me of this again…"_ ****** Anne recoiled at the words, in _her_ remembered voice… from _her_ remembered lips… and knew nothing except they made her stomach churn. She knew nothing except the heat of his hurt and whether she might cool it.

All she could do was turn her eyes up imploringly to so similar hazel ones to _his_ , here narrowed in confusion.

"Well, Anne, of course…" Rob assented with a troubled smile.

Anne tried not to note the cryptic, silent exchange between Rob Blythe and her mother as she left, and focussed on what she would say to the man outside.

Her steps were as inevitable as his had been. Down the verandah, over the grass, through to the garden behind the wall. And he was there, sitting on his mother's bench, curly dark head in his hands.

He heard her steps and did not even look up.

"Dad, sorry, but I _really_ don't want to talk about it!"

"Wrong guess," she offered softly.

He lifted his head in surprise, watching her approach, his expression uneasy.

"Anne, sorry, but I _really_ don't want to talk about it," he huffed, though he was a fraction calmer, his tone reaching for wry and settling on disgruntled.

"OK," she nodded, her look searching but her tongue, for once, had stilled on all its questions.

She waited while he weighed his indecision; would he ask her to stay or to go? His pained hazel eyes betrayed the struggle, and in the end he heaved a great sigh.

"I know what you're going to say, Anne."

"Do you?" her mouth lifted, and her reply was challenging enough for him to contemplate her with the hint of his own chagrined smile.

"Well, maybe that was a dangerous thing to say," he offered, "as you already have a short but decided history of wrong-footing me… and I've already established my own record of underestimating you. So, who knows?"

"Wise words at last," she grinned, and he allowed himself a dark chuckle.

"Alright, I'm not emotionally equipped to deal with an extended guessing game after we've already played that inside. You might as well come out with it."

"Well, can I at least sit down?"

"Sorry," he frowned, moving to make room on the bench. "Of course."

She folded her hands together calmly. "You think you don't have a right to the house."

His expression clouded. "Of _course_ I don't have a right to the house!"

"Why?"

"I can't keep the house, Anne. I don't deserve it. You of all people have to understand that."

"I understand a lot of things, but I don't understand your reasoning here."

David blew out a breath. "If it was _any_ other house, Anne… but it's different, now. We _know_ something of them… Shirley and Carl. My _parents_ knew them…"

"Then you have a link to the house, which makes it perfectly valid that it passes to you."

"That's just it. The link isn't _mine._ Therefore the house shouldn't be."

Anne's own brows puzzled this out. "You were too young to know the Great Uncles. Any link to them was always going to be through your mother or your dad."

"Then let _them_ keep it…" he argued quietly but no less stubbornly. "Let Dad keep it."

She bit her lip, she stepped back from the edge, but then she launched the protest regardless. "Your mother obviously didn't want it that way."

His expression grew very troubled now, and he stood unexpectedly, fisting his hands into his pockets. "Anne, best leave my mother out of this!"

"Yes… because you are doing an excellent job of not including her in this at _all_ …" she challenged with a sad smile, casting a knowing look around them. He frowned down at her, all put-out petulance, and she had a flash of him as a boy, only confusingly with ruddy curls and not dark ones, and…. She gulped, blinking herself back to focus. She stood herself and reached for his left arm, dragged out his hand to the sunshine, grasped the left hand tight in hers. "Please, _please_ save the plants today, David."

He gave a choked laugh, then threw his head back to look at the sky.

"That's all fine for the plants, but where do I put the pain instead?"

When he looked at her again there were tears in his eyes, and he made no effort to blink them away.

" _Here,"_ she whispered, reaching up to kiss his cheek, and then laying her lips to his hand. "Put it here."

With a sound smothered in anguish, he drew her to him fiercely, and his lips on hers were not polite or smiling as of earlier, teasing her with his hello, but desperate and aching. Anne yielded to his kiss and to the pressure, not knowing how to temper it, only to absorb it… only to help save him, with the length of his hard body pressed against hers, even if she couldn't save herself.

His fingers were threaded through her hair, pulling her in even closer to him, and then, the stumbling back as he pushed himself away.

" _Jesus,_ Anne! S-sorry!" he was all glazed-eyed astonishment. "I didn't mean to… to…"

"It's OK!" she gasped.

"No, it's not…" he replied unevenly. "At least… I'm not a caveman, Anne. I really must be losing it."

He shuddered a breath, and almost collapsed back onto the bench.

"I am usually not this _unstable…_ at _all."_ He shook his head despairingly.

"Not unstable… just _emotional_ ," she countered, after a moment.

He blew out a breath. "Some doctor I'd make."

"Maybe it will make you a better one," she paused, sitting back on the bench next to him tentatively. "A little empathy and all that."

He looked at her with an embarrassed half smile. "Not _emo,_ just empathetic. _That's_ a relief."

"Don't worry. All your other manly virtues are still intact."

She realised a beat too late how that dry observation might be interpreted, and made a garbled, flaming-cheeked retraction that only made the situation far worse, and encouraged David to snigger in barely suppressed delight.

"Oh, _honestly_!" she huffed, exasperated.

"I've thought it many times. You are adorable, Anne Ford."

She looked away and rolled her eyes, at his unashamed grin, the tables turned, and he reached out for her hand with his left one, holding it firmly.

"So _Kit_ was Carl Meredith…" he changed tack. "That's pretty amazing, when you think about it."

She nodded. "I know…"

"Do you think Carl ever wrote a letter back? A reply to Shirley?"

Anne looked out ahead, onto the garden that Shirley would have known, and Carl too.

"Shirley came back to the Glen, to _him._ I think he had to have had. Something had to convince Shirley that his views weren't the end of things, that his _goodbye_ wasn't truly a goodbye."

"And they lived here in the Glen, together, for _decades,_ in a house on the road to Lowbridge. _Another Meredith-Blythe partnership._ Carl said it himself."

"He also said that _you_ might _carry the best of both families_ in you."

"Well, see, _that's_ one of the parts I have trouble with," David frowned. "I'm just a regular upstart like everyone else."

Anne couldn't help a smile, and gave his hand a squeeze for good measure. "Hardly a _regular_ upstart, surely?" she gave him an arch, sideways look. "More of an _extra special_ upstart from where I'm sitting."

He smirked, but made no reply.

"It's not a pressure, David, you realise. It's not an _expectation,_ those words. They're a _gift._ It's just another of all these lovely reminders of your mom. She was so excited about you she couldn't wait to tell Great Uncle Carl, and he wrote those lovely words to her about _you._ You have all these touching anecdotes about her and what she was like, how she changed up your ring tone on your phone, how she would say or do this and that. Your dad still practically worships the ground she walked on. I wish… that I had _half_ the memories you have, you know."

He was instantly mollified. "Anne… I'm sorry. I didn't think… I'm sorry…"

She shrugged, the pinprick tears annoying her eyes. "It's OK." She paused, composing herself. "You will be given a house when you're twenty one, David. I'll be given a trust fund and my dad's shares in the company. I won't have earned a cent of any of it. Does that make _me_ unworthy, too? Does it make _me_ undeserving?"

"God, Anne, of course not!"

"Then how is this different?"

His mouth tried to work through an answer, though he struggled to force any sound out.

"Because…" his tone was a strangled thing. "Because then she'd be truly gone. Not just a presence I still expect to walk through the door. She'd be consigned to history, just like the rest of them. Just like Carl and Shirley. And what she did and who she was just becomes… a name on a page. An inscription in a book."

"Then make it matter, David! Make her passing _matter!_ Become a doctor and do good things – find a cure for cancer, I don't know, anything!"

Her own face, lighting with the words, challenged his ashen one.

"And I don't agree that none of _this_ matters – that _history_ doesn't matter! That we live our lives and are consigned to the rubbish bin when its over. Or that we are just footnotes at the end of a chapter. Your dad would wash your mouth out with soap at that! Because things… go _on,_ David! _People_ go _on!_ Your mom left you that house because Carl and Shirley _mattered!_ And because you are the next link and she loved you and _you_ matter! But, you know, if that's not enough, then go fight your battles; make a difference! Go shoot down enemy planes like Shirley did, or save someone from a burning building and lose an eye for your trouble like Carl did, or hell, just even read and research and remember them so someone like _me_ can read about them, like your dad has! Do whatever you feel you have to do, but don't say you'll never feel worthy and therefore won't even try. That was _my_ dad's line, and you know, I'm a bit tired of it. Because after a time it stops being an explanation and just starts to become an _excuse._ "

David stared at her, a little dumbstruck.

 _Oh, God._ "I'm sorry, David! I don't know where that came from!" she tried to extract her hand from his, but he held it fast.

He continued to look at her through lowered brows. _Damn! Was this a way to comfort him? To beat him about the head with her own misgivings, bleeding into that diatribe?_

"You know that wasn't only just about you…" she continued, cheeks heating.

"Do I get a right of reply, now, Anne?"

Her eyes, grey sparked with bolts of green, assessed him warily. Was he a _ngry?_ "Yes… of course."

"OK. Yes. You're right. And I'm being a pain about it."

Her eyes widened at the admission. "OK…" she echoed uncertainly.

"You always seem to call me on stuff. No one's really done that, before. At least, not a girl." He gave her a loaded look. "Trust a _Ford_ to do it."

She colored. "Well, it's all part of the service…" she attempted uneasily.

He relaxed into a grin. "And you're not merely adorable. You are _magnificent._ "

The heat shot through her, even as he leaned in, kissing her softly but resolutely, his lips asking invitation this time, and making a rather persuasive case for himself. He drew back and smiled at her, rising slowly and pulling her up with him.

"You're right. I'll get over myself. I will work towards _worthy."_

"Well, we're all working towards _that…_ " she breathed.

He nodded thoughtfully. "Meanwhile, we're young. We're alive. It's summer. What the hell are we doing?"

"David…?" she questioned as he began to walk purposefully back out of the garden, Anne trotting to keep up alongside him.

"We've been obsessing about letters and history and the love lives of two uncles who would probably just be laughing at us if they knew. Let's get the hell out of here, Anne Ford, and live our own lives for a change."

The words were more prophetic than he knew, and she smiled at the irony of them.

"What are we going to do?"

He turned to her, his expression full of beguile and bewitch, his dark brows waggling suggestively.

"The question isn't _what_ we are going to do; the question is what _aren't_ we going to do?"

He made a sweeping gesture to the dazzle of sun on harbour below.

"Before you, Anne, the splendour of the Glen and the gulf. _Ours._ For as long as we can have them."

Anne's smile was as wide as David's, but the gnaw that tugged at her belly was the same misgiving as her mother's; how long was _long?_ How quickly would a summer fly? Was there any part of the fairytale that would last beyond the leaving of these shores?

"I have been a lousy tour guide. That isgoing to change. I am going to show you every corner of the Glen. I am going to take you to every place worth going to. And perhaps some we _shouldn't_ even set foot in." He gave a wicked smirk.

She leapt at the light of his tone.

"Are you intending to lead me astray, David Blythe?" her pulse quickened at the thought of it. "To lead me down the primrose path?"

 _He ben(t) forward with a smile on his face - a smile which seemed to Anne at once triumphant and taunting_. *******

" _This_ from the person who made us break into the lighthouse last night." His voice was low.

" _You_ may have broken in…" her pulse now fairly leapt, unrestrained, "but _I_ merely entered after hours through an unlocked door…"

The smile continued to hover about his lips, enticingly. He shook his head in amusement.

"You just give good kids bad ideas."

She smirked at this herself, now.

"And _meanwhile…_ " he gave a fond glance back up the slope to the old, handsome house. "I'd better go back to Dad and grovel an apology. And tell him it would be my privilege to become… a _landlord…_ in October."

"You're sure? I didn't force you or guilt you into – "

He gave an effusive sigh.

"Surrender! Know when you've _won,_ Anne!" he grinned, rolling his eyes, and then kissed her again to mitigate any further doubts.

* * *

Robert James Blythe sat on his sofa, within his own inherited house, as the chimes of midnight floated on the otherwise quiet air, cradling the words of Old Walt in one hand and the words of young Shirley in the other.

Young Gerald David Blythe had staggered in half an hour or so earlier, grinning and Anne-drunk, blathering about _being worthy_ and _making it matter._ Rob had no idea what Anne had said to him in the garden, and even less idea of what had kept them out for all the afternoon and half the evening, but the gleam of giddy wonder about him was one he had rarely seen, and one that he himself was only just daring to rediscover.

So David would have the Lowbridge house, and enjoy an independent income during his hopeful medical studies to come, which was one of the things his mother had wanted for him, as well as a continuing connection to the man who had lived and loved there, and who had thrilled to the idea of a Meredith-Blythe baby after all this time; the literal embodiment of the union of their two families.

So Mel would get her way, even from the grave. It didn't surprise him. Was she _calling_ to him from the grave as well, just at the very point when he was not always listening now for her voice?

Rob looked over Shirley's letter, amazed that the taciturn man he had known could have also been this striving, doubting, agonising, _longing_ creature, loving yet regretful, thinking it wasn't worthwhile _living,_ let alone coming on home. David and Anne had stumbled upon a heartfelt relic of another love of another time – _a love that_ _dare not speak its name_ ******** back then – and yet had been proclaimed so loudly in coded letters, and in the shadows, and behind locked doors, and so beautifully in the hush of a bedroom in that Lowbridge house, glimpsed and overheard by his younger self thirty years ago, now, and never forgotten.

He would see Tessa tomorrow night, but he looked at the Whitman, now, and he saw Mel. He saw her reading it to Carl when his poor, lone eye began to fail; he saw her dipping into it, casually, as she would one of her _pulp paperbacks,_ as she called them when a young Master Blythe insisted on being rocked to sleep; he saw her cleave to it as maverick companion during her treatment; he read it to her, himself, when she no longer had the strength to do so.

He saw it by her bedside during that long final night.

And then he buried it on the shelf, because he couldn't bear to see it again.

But Time, if not the ultimate healer, at least attempted to soften the memories. Perhaps as he had found Tessa, so too he could find _this_ again.

" _You who celebrate bygones…"_ ********* she had so often teased him. And yet, here all this time, she had the letter Shirley Blythe had written to Carl Meredith at the end of the Great War, rehomed in a volume of verse. She who had kept _that_ secret, he wondered now… what others had she safeguarded?

 _When I read the book, the biography famous,_

 _And is this then (said I) what the author calls a man's life?_

 _And so will some one when I am dead and gone write my life?_ **********

 _Oh, Mel…_ he began to cry his silent sobs, lest he wake that boy upstairs, that gift, that talisman.

Rob flicked, paused, turned further.

He could have read any number of poems and sections; he could have exhilarated at _Song of Myself,_ or remembered the first time he blushed at _Children of Adam;_ he could have quietly reflected on _Calamus,_ even more so after today _;_ or meditated on _Crossing Brooklyn Ferry._ That was the beauty of Whitman, he supposed; everyone had his or her own version of him; he sounded his _barbaric yawp_ to all, and everyone heard it differently.

Perhaps it was the Island boy in him; born of a coastal town on an enchanted isle as so many before and since, but he found himself float towards _Sea-Drift._

… _A man, yet by these tears a little boy again,_

 _Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,_

 _I, chatterer of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,_

 _Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond them,_

 _A reminiscence sing…_

 _Up this seashore in some briers,_

 _Two feather'd guests from Alabama, two together,_

 _And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown,_

 _And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand,_

 _And every day the she-bird crouch'd on her nest, silent, with bright eyes…_

 _Till of a sudden,_

 _May-be kill'd, unknown to her mate,_

 _One forenoon the she-bird crouch'd not on the nest,_

 _Nor return'd that afternoon, nor the next,_

 _Nor ever appear'd again…_

 _Oh night! Do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers?_

 _What is that little black thing I see in the white?_

 _Loud! loud! loud!_

 _Loud I call to you, my love!_

 _High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves,_

 _Surely you must know who is here, is here,_

 _You must know who I am, my love…_

 _Hither my love!_

 _Here I am! here!_

 _With this just-sustaine'd note I announce myself to you,_

 _This gentle call is for you my love, for you._

 _O past! O happy life! O songs of joy!_

 _In the air, in the woods, over fields,_

 _Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!_

 _But my mate no more, no more with me!_

 _We two together no more."_ ***********

Rob, cheeks wet, sunk into the sofa, against an ancient embroidered cushion, and found himself pulled into the maelstrom of memory; but by morning he awakened, cleansed, on the gentle wash of the tide.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

My chapter title is taken from Robert Browning's ' _By the Fire-Side'_

*As is only right and proper, the opening descriptions of Old Carl and Old Shirley belong to _**elizasky**_

**Referring, naturally, to Nan and Jerry's wedding in _**elizasky's**_ ' _The Happiness We Must Win'_ Chapter 15 'Happily Ever After'

***This quote is always attributed to one of my favourite ever actresses, Audrey Hepburn, in the film _Sabrina_ (1954). She never actually says it in the film, although it _is_ mentioned by Julia Ormond in the 1995 remake, although Audrey had a lifelong love affair with Paris, a lifelong friendship with Hubert de Givenchy, and had many of her best known and most beloved films set there. However in _Sabrina_ she _did_ say _'I have learned how to live. To be in the world and of the world…'_ which is equally wonderful.

****Thanks to _**elizasky**_ for her idea of Jerry's trip for the opening of the Vimy Memorial. For those of you too young to have ever been subjected to a Slide Evening; be grateful.

***** Walt Whitman from _'Full of Life Now'_ in _Leaves of Grass_ (1892) Book V _Calamus_ With thanks to _**elizasky**_ for suggesting the quotation.

****** _Anne of the Island_ Ch. 20

******* _Anne of Green Gables_ Ch. 33

********Quoted at Oscar Wildes's gross indecency trials of 1895 (the first was a hung jury), taken from a poem called _Two Loves_ by Lord Alfred Douglas (Bosie), who was Oscar's lover and also acknowledged in many ways as his destroyer. It was in defending his reputation against Bosie's harsh, violent father, the Marquess of Queensbury (whom he hated) that Bosie goaded Oscar Wilde to take the matter to trial in the first place, against the advice of many of his other friends, including George Bernard Shaw. The evidence brought forward in the criminal libel trial in the Marquess's defence (which included incriminating letters written by Oscar still in the pockets of his old clothes that Bosie would give to his male prostitutes) was then used to charge and try Wilde in a case of sodomy and gross indecency.

A selection from _Two Loves_ (1892):

 _And as I stood and marvelled, lo! across  
The garden came a youth; one hand he raised  
To shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hair  
Was twined with flowers, and in his hand he bore  
A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes  
Were clear as crystal, naked all was he,  
White as the snow on pathless mountains frore,  
Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyes  
A marble floor, his brow chalcedony.  
And he came near me, with his lips uncurled  
And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth,  
And gave me grapes to eat, and said, 'Sweet friend,  
Come I will show thee shadows of the world  
And images of life…_

 _I fell a-weeping, and I cried, 'Sweet youth,  
Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove  
These pleasant realms? I pray thee speak me sooth  
What is thy name?' He said, 'My name is Love.'  
Then straight the first did turn himself to me  
And cried, 'He lieth, for his name is Shame,  
But I am Love, and I was wont to be  
Alone in this fair garden, till he came  
Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill  
The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.'  
Then sighing, said the other, 'Have thy will,  
I am the Love that dare not speak its name.'_

*********Whitman from _'To a Historian'_ in _Leaves of Grass_ (1892) Book I _'Inscriptions'_

**********Whitman from _'When I Read the Book'_ in _Leaves of Grass_ (1892) Book I _'Inscriptions'_

***********Whitman from _'Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking'_ in _Leaves of Grass_ (1892) Book XIX _'Sea-Drift'_


	9. And all a wonder and a wild desire

**Author's Note**

Hello there! Remember this fic?!

This story, which is all about history and memory, was not really meant to test the faculties of lovely readers by making you all reach back into your own memories to try to puzzle… well, what on earth was happening in this one? I am more sorry than I can say for my delay, which is around ten weeks and counting. To make it up to you, I have firstly split this chapter, so that another one will be hot on its' heels…

And secondly, I have written a second _**M chapter**_ over in my sister-story collection _**By a Beating Heart at Dance-Time.**_ That M chapter continues the 'Interlude' between Rob and Melissa right at the very beginning of this chapter. So really, you could read all of this chapter and then hop on over to M-land, if you are so inclined, or read the Interlude and then its completion in the M section before settling in for the adventures of Anne and David in the current timeframe. If the M section is not for you I have included lots of lovely moments between Rob and Mel here that I hope give you a fairly good idea of where things headed between them x

Thanks as always to anyone who is keeping faith with this story and welcome to any new readers, particularly those who have peeked through the door after reading _**The Land of Heart's Desire.**_

In particular, thanks to anyone kind enough to review … you have my hugs and gratitude and apologies until I can get back to you with proper acknowledgement.

With thanks again to _**elizasky**_ for her beta read and her helpful, thoughtful suggestions… not least of which was to Just. Split. The. Chapter.

With love

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Nine**

 **'And all a wonder and a wild desire'**

* * *

 _ **Interlude: Melissa Meredith**_

 _ **Glen St Mary, PEI, December 1989**_

Melissa Meredith had been used to a little too much realism with her romance in times past; of young men whose imagination did not reach beyond a red rose on Valentine's Day, and who considered it the height of commitment to remove their socks before amorous relations. She had hardened her heart to the infinitesimal slights and disappointments; she had steeled herself to make peace with her ever-lowering expectations. A firm believer in not missing what you've never had, she began to cheerfully decry all the tender trappings of courtship that other girlfriends seemed surrounded by; casting an ironic eye over the infantile love letters and the little gifts and the tiresome _pitching and mooning_ * and the little coupledom rituals that were insisted upon, right down to the boring affront of yet another shriek of _that's our song!_ at whatever party or club or dance she had been dragged along to. Honestly, you'd think they were all back in school, graffitiing the desks with little scratched-out hearts, stabbing the centre of them with sets of initials with their compass from Math class; _AS 4 GB 4 eva._

So she was completely, wholly unprepared for what it meant to have a boyfriend in Rob Blythe.

Faithfully as promised, come the end of the September of their final year, he had set off on the Friday night for Charlottetown, his handsome face growing resolute and determined, catching the last ferry across the strait and staying with his Meredith cousins there – _and_ hers – possibly fitting in a morning tea with Great Uncle Jerry and Auntie Nan; calling on everyone's favourite of the Meredith daughters, the slightly eccentric Aunt Cordelia; and then seeing his soon-to-be former legal eagle paramour. Melissa waited all weekend on tenterhooks, not entirely convinced he wouldn't fall back into _Kimberley's_ worldly, older, confident arms and forget her very existence.

He was very late in returning on the Sunday; she had stayed up especially, but her worry tired her and all she could think of was his dear, handsome face, a constant through all of her childhood and a feature of just about every memory she possessed, and him coming back to see her and apologising… _Sorry, Mel… I don't think things will work out between us now. Have a nice life._

Instead he scratched at her door, well after curfew and risking the wrath of both their boarding house heads; she opened it to his careful hazel eyes and his mediative smile.

"Well, Melissa Una Meredith, I'm all yours if you want me."

Trust a Blythe to soften her hardened heart.

And now she was painfully aware that his niceness had made her needy, and she was terrified by the thought he could turn around at any moment and admit his monumental mistake in being with her, when there were so many others more deserving of his attention. Nice girls who didn't want to stab the occasional difficult patient with their own IV needle; dedicated girls who could balance bedpans and boyfriends (not necessarily at the same time) without turning a perfectly crimped hair. She could be cross with him or teary or despairing and it didn't matter; his embrace was the same. So not only was she afraid of doing something so unforgivably awful that he would end it; she knew that he had ruined her for all time, for no longer would any other average, run-of-the-mill, uninspired man gain her notice. She loved and had been loved by him and learned that she had crossed a great point of no return, and the realisation was terrifying.

And then, he was so frustratingly gentlemanly.

He was a truly marvellous kisser, in the whispered tradition of men in his family, and used this skill to inordinate advantage, making her forget that they were both adults now and could afford to be a little more adventurous. He would murmur amusingly ineffectual protests concerning some antiquarian _three button rule_ ** passed down from his father – or even his grandfather – as her lips strayed to his collar, meant to safeguard his fled virtue – or hers – she was never sure. His hands had full permission to roam but rarely invoked the privilege, after that fevered occasion on Halloween, when as he would later sheepishly admit the sight of her Vampire Madonna, complete with rather-defeating-the-purpose-crucifixes, had done in his lovelorn _Thriller_ -inspired zombie completely. That night had been quite the revelation; how had Rob Blythe, childhood comrade and third cousin, become quite so accomplished at _that_ sort of below-stairs, south-of-the-border exploration? Her eyes had nearly rolled back into her head. She had done everything in her power to orchestrate a repeat performance, only to have him insist on more circumspect conduct; he wanted to romance her, not take advantage of her, pleading that he had years of catch-up courting, even as she teasingly tried to enlist Shakespeare to support her argument - _"let lips do what hands do"_ -*** and had his warm, pleased laugh as her reward.

And then, she had an all-consuming work placement, and after that so had he, and end of term exams loomed, and before she knew it there they were, back on the ferry across the strait, linking fingers and whispering sweet nothings and attempting to play it cool before their parents, lest half of the Glen pass comment on their new romantic status before they had a chance to fully figure it for themselves.

So both by chance and design, they hadn't yet slept together, except in her increasingly fraught dreams.

Christmas was sweet and strangely contemplative; making secret eyes at one another across the table at Ingleside or up at her own house during joint family gatherings; seeing her brother Michael off to visit friends in Toronto; and finally, an unlikely breakthrough… an invitation to Ingleside, whilst Rob's parents were away overnight so his mother could hit the sales in Charlottetown before the new year.

"Do you think you could make it over tomorrow night?" hazel eyes gleamed their own invitation as his whispered aside tickled her ear. "That is… if you want to. No pressure, Mel."

She might have once rolled her eyes at his Boy Scout-ness; now she found his second-guessing quite charming and not altogether unsexy.

'' _Goose…"_ the old nickname now gained new life as breathless endearment. "Wild horses couldn't keep me away. "

"Well… that's very reassuring to hear."

"Shall I bring my deck of cards?" she teased.

"By all means. I'll have the _Monopoly_ all set," he grinned.

"Remember that I'm the top hat. It's my lucky token."

"With or without it, you might still get lucky, Miss Meredith," he smirked unrepentantly, and gave her a look that made her honeyed hair curl of its own accord, as he sauntered back to where their parents were devouring Christmas leftovers and mulled wine in the lounge.

And so it came to pass that she stood on the Ingleside verandah, little overnight bag at the ready and staying-at-her-girlfriend's alibi in place, the day after Boxing Day, contemplating whether Rob Blythe might indeed have been her destiny, all along.

XXXXX

She might have expected a smart shirted Rob Blythe to greet her at his door; she did not expect the Abominable Snowman, decked out in the woolliest of jumpers, looking like he'd be happy to add a scarf and earmuffs to his astonishing indoor ensemble.

"Rob?" Melissa spluttered a laugh, "going on a ski trip?"

He rolled those hazel eyes at her, grasping her hand to lead her inside.

"You're going to wish we _were_ ," he frowned, and then sighed excessively. "God, I'm so sorry about this, Mel."

"Sorry?" she puzzled up at him.

"The central heating's been on the blink since I woke up this morning, not long after my parents left. I've been trying to figure it all day. I can't get anyone to come out and take a look at it; everyone's still off for Christmas. It's freezing. It was probably warmer on your walk down the street to get here."

Mel looked around, her nose testing the decidedly frigid air.

"Mmm… I see what you mean…" she drew her coat around her, golden-dark brows drawing together.

"The lounge is fine, it's more than fine, because we have the fireplace… but its just… _upstairs…_ " he emphasised, trailing off forlornly.

Mel could have laughed at the expression on his face, akin to a kid whose candy had been stolen, but who was trying his best to be brave about it.

"This is such a disaster… this was _not_ what I had in mind… for us," Rob lamented, shaking his head. "I understand, really, if you just want to take a raincheck, Mel."

Melissa bit the inside of her cheek. Honestly, _men._ She could hardly get to sleep last night for thinking of this moment; of hands, _and_ lips, that could roam free and with abandon, of being closer to him than any other person in the world… Of making good on the delightful promise of the last three transformative months, and perhaps the knowledge of the last five years, since she had started, slowly, to become aware of his look to her, and how she had once shied away from it, only to draw back to it now, and to have his eyes on her as necessary to her as breathing.

She wanted to show him how much she had grown to love him, so that it would not occur to him to ask such questions now.

She had also spent the entire day shaving and buffing and shampooing and preening in preparation. She was wearing matching underwear. She had a very nice negligee, newly gifted to herself, hidden away in her bag. _There would be no rainchecks._

"Do I _look_ like I want a raincheck, Robert James Blythe?" her voice dropped in register, hovering around _sultry,_ as she bravely shrugged out of her coat to reveal formfitting soft pink angora sweater, black mini shirt and matching stockings and boots, shaking her silken tresses until they settled in fragrant repose about her shoulders, and looking up at him with a mild challenge in those blue Meredith eyes.

He seemed to finally _see_ her, forgetting his distraction in best-laid plans gone awry, and visibly swallowed, his eyes widening as he surveyed her, slowly, up and down.

"Er… _no_ ," he gave a shamefaced smile. "God, you look wonderful, Mel. I'm sorry. I'm being an idiot."

He leant down to kiss her, his nose cold but his lips warm and his eyes beginning to smoulder, and his large Blythe hands strayed to her waist and then, with a grin as challenge of his own, he drew her to the waiting warmth of the fire and of his strong arms.

* * *

Anne sat up in bed, willing herself beautiful; clutching at the old, musty book like a prayer and imagining herself with glorious muddy-red tresses, the imploring Blythe hazel eyes and magnificent milky skin. If she _had_ been Bertha Marilla Blythe, later Rilla Ford, then she must do better at communing with her girlish, fanciful and occasionally frivolous ancestor and spirit-mate, so that she could truly figure who her own modern-day love was channeling _himself_. Was David sharing his soul and spirit with Ken? Was he his own ancestor Jem, he of the same eyes and curls if not the coloring? And what of this Gilbert, married to that first Anne, whose name had come unbidden when she had looked at David seeming so anguished the other day?

Anne felt like tossing the _Diary of Bertha Marilla Blythe, Aged Fifteen_ across the room in frustration, but it was far too old and too precious, dating back from the very start of the Great War and with some tremendous asides regarding other members of the family, even if Anne did have to contend with this troublesome contradiction inherent in a girl who would stubbornly wear a stupid hat for half the war and yet would adopt an abandoned child out of the clear blue sky and effectively rear him singlehandedly. Or think that she _might_ be engaged.

She sighed into the night, turning worn pages giving new meaning to paper-thin; feathery to her fingers; the neat writing faint and often indistinct; sometimes smudged if by an impatient hand or blotted as if by a tearful eye.

 _"I couldn't bear to have Walter go,"_ Rilla Blythe had written, not long after war had been declared. _"I love Jem ever so much but Walter means more to me than anyone in the world and I would die if he had to go. He seems so changed these days. He hardly ever talks to me. I suppose he wants to go, too, and feels badly because he can't. He doesn't go about with Jem and Jerry at all…_ ****

… _Everybody seems busy but me. I wish there was something I could do but there doesn't seem to be anything. Mother and Nan and Di are busy all the time and I just wander about like a lonely ghost. What hurts me terribly, though, is that mother's smiles, and Nan's, just seem put on from the outside. Mother's eyes never laugh now. It makes me feel that I shouldn't laugh either—that it's wicked to feel laughy. And it's so hard for me to keep from laughing, even if Jem is going to be a soldier. But when I laugh I don't enjoy it either, as I used to do. There's something behind it all that keeps hurting me—especially when I wake up in the night. Then I cry because I am afraid that Kitchener of Khartoum is right and the war will last for years and Jem may be—but no, I won't write it. It would make me feel as if it were really going to happen. The other day Nan said, 'Nothing can ever be quite the same for any of us again.' It made me feel rebellious. Why shouldn't things be the same again—when everything is over and Jem and Jerry are back? We'll all be happy and jolly again and these days will seem just like a bad dream…_ ****

Anne sighed at the sad innocence of that remark. The war _did_ last for years and nothing was ever the same again _when everything was over._

More pleasantly diverting was the tidbit about Shirley, who received scant mention from Rilla at the best of times (excepting his teasing of her alongside brother Jem) though he was closest to her in age.

… _Susan is funny, but she is an old dear. Shirley says she is one half angel and the other half good cook. But then Shirley is the only one of us she never scolds…_ ****

This mention of Susan was puzzling. There was no trace of her on any family tree to speak of. Anne made a mental note to ask Rob Blythe.

… _Faith Meredith is wonderful. I think she and Jem are really engaged now. She goes about with a shining light in her eyes, but her smiles are a little stiff and starched, just like mother's. I wonder if I could be as brave as she is if I had a lover and he was going to the war…_ ****

… _I haven't seen Kenneth since the night of the party. He was here one evening after Jem came back but I happened to be away. I don't think he mentioned me at all—at least nobody told me he did and I was determined I wouldn't ask—but I don't care in the least. All that matters absolutely nothing to me now. The only thing that does matter is that Jem has volunteered for active service and will be going to Valcartier in a few more days—my big, splendid brother Jem. Oh, I'm so proud of him!_ ****

… _I suppose Kenneth would enlist too if it weren't for his ankle. I think that is quite providential. He is his mother's only son and how dreadful she would feel if he went. Only sons should never think of going!"_ ****

What would it have been to see brothers and lovers and sons go to war? And then again a second time, a generation later? The knowledge lay heavy on Anne's chest; an immovable object she was trapped under; the weight of time and memory pinning her down. They lived in a world now that should be safe, and mostly was, and yet there were always occasional rumblings of discontent from corners of the world, fraying the edges of her smooth, serene life. What would it be like to see David off to war, smiling and handsome, bright with bravery and promise? The thought caused a mad, incomprehensible flutter of panic.

Anne thought of all the boys who had not returned from the war to end all wars; a generation mown down in a haze of bullets, their sacrifice remembered in a poppy pinned to a lapel twice a year. It seemed so little when it was meant to commemorate so much. Yesterday morning, with David studying and the weather having the affront to be overcast, she had taken herself around to the graveyard by the old Presbyterian manse, and finally to the church itself. She had seen the plaque in the church commemorating so many sons of Glen St Mary who had not returned from the war, including that one Blythe brother Walter; Rilla's favourite. She had meandered around the manse and thought of Carl Meredith growing up there, thinking on that Blythe boy across the valley, and later, if he had ever penned a reply to the letter of his lover Shirley, calling him back home, or had something stirred in Shirley regardless?

Anne lay back, eventually, and waited for sleep to take her. She thought her dreams would be full of soldiers and teary train platform farewells; or else a group of women sewing, waiting in agonised anticipation for any word from the Front; or even young Rilla Blythe struggling with the most unusual contents of a soup tureen.

But no. Incongruously, and certainly incomprehensively, her mind had thrown back to that atmospheric walk down a lane, opening up to a wood… and on the edge of it, a huge farm with a homestead, all white with green trim, winking at her in the sunlight.

* * *

David had made good on his promise to share with her the summer delights of Glen St Mary, ferrying her about the one or two cafes that were charming, if not, thankfully, exactly Toronto-cool; introducing her to a further series of friends and what passed for local hot spots, sometimes simultaneously; and even mostly behaving himself back during her sleepover with his cousin Maddie, only trying to gatecrash their girl gossip twice with other cousin Max in tow. They had been almost three weeks on the Island; several days in Summerside and now two weeks in the Glen for a visit that was initially to be a few days; not that she was in any way complaining, and her mother certainly wasn't, seeing as how she herself saw Rob Blythe at every opportunity, both parents still chronically comical in their efforts to be casual towards the other in company.

Today David had taken her for a drive up and around the coast, leaving the Glen and even the lighthouse far behind, finding them a secluded cove that felt as if it had lain in wait of them, undiscovered, till they had leapt from the car and had run down to the water's edge like two loons, finally circling back, collapsing with breathless laughter in the embrace of the dunes.

"I thought I was such a city girl…" Anne ventured after a time, looking around her at the symphony of sun and surf and sand and sky, "but I can't believe how much I love the ocean now. Don't you find it calling you, even in Kingsport? Do you miss it when you're away?"

David's expression was shaded from her by his sunglasses, though his tone and smile were wry.

"Sure I miss it. Though there is a fine port in Kingsport after all, and I hear that Toronto has a little old harbour _there_ , too." His lips quirked knowingly.

"Oh, I know the harbour," she shrugged carelessly. "Grandad Tom has about five boats moored there. But I mean… _this_ ," she indicated with a toss of her head and the sweep of a small, smooth hand.

David plucked at a reed growing in a clump by the sand bank, twisting it with long, brown fingers.

"It's taken me a while, actually…" he seemed to swallow, turning the reed over and over. "After Ma died, all I wanted to do was to get away. I was only halfway through my course. I threw myself into life at uni – all the clubs, all the parties… I made excuses not to come back. It wasn't very fair to Dad, but I just couldn't stand it here. And then I came back one time and saw he hadn't been doing very well, and I felt pretty lousy after that. _This_ summer was the first time I felt really OK with being home and around the memories of her… I was going to be the Good Son, spending all this time with him and drawing him back into the land of the living… and then your mom came along, and so my good intentions were needed for about two minutes. And now I'm completely superfluous to his happiness."

"Yes, Gerald David Blythe," Anne grinned and rolled her eyes, "that is certainly the word that comes to mind when people think of you. _Superfluous._ "

He chuckled low at her baiting. "Well, then, I guess the question is whether or not I'm superfluous to _your_ happiness, Anne Alexandra Ford?"

She wished for sunglasses of her own at this point, to help shield her, for something in her was trying, and failing, to keep up a sophisticated veneer of practiced polish around him, instead of what she felt like doing, which was to generally fall, worshipful, at his feet. _Essential,_ she gulped to herself. _You are essential to my happiness._

"Well, in the _Hierarchy of Needs,_ ***** you are probably somewhere between sleeping and food," she instead responded with a deliberate arch of her lips.

"And here I was thinking I was at _least_ Level Three…" he grinned at the game, crawling over the sand to hover over her. "Color me yellow, Anne."

"Well… that level is all about _friends…_ and _family…_ " she hedged, flushing, breathing rapidly under his gaze as he threw off his sunglasses to stare at her with darkening hazel eyes. "So you… um… pass that level on both counts OK, I guess."

He gave a wolf's smile. "Isn't there something else about that level?" he asked blandly, making a great show of thinking it over, dark brows knotted, even as he positioned a strong arm either side of her, waiting.

"Well…" _Damn._ He had caught her, well and truly, in every respect. _Play with fire and you'll get burned, Ford._

That was the trouble. Some days she hesitated to light the match, and other days she was too happy to build a great pyre and stand herself on top of it. She was gearing herself up to tackle one of her mother's favourite books, _Possession,_ but she knew the film version well enough – a little _too_ well – along with its famous shared lines… _I cannot let you burn me up; nor can I resist you… No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed…_ *******

He could leave her a charred ruin if she was not careful. And yet, oh the fire… the fire was warm and tempting, and she basked in it, even as she inched ever closer to the heat and tested herself against the temperature.

It was, evidently, a throwing-herself-on-the-pyre sort of day.

" _This…_ " she breathed, touching her lips to his. " _This_ is the other part."

He smiled against her mouth. "I thought so…" his voice was a low rumble, and his mouth found hers. His body blanketed her own as he sank with her low behind the dunes.

* * *

"Avonlea?" Anne repeated, frowning up into her mother's excited, ever-glowing face.

"Avonlea!" her mother grinned like a schoolgirl. "Isn't that a wonderful idea?"

"I guess… but _when?_ And what's in Avonlea? I've never heard of it."

"It's where the Blythes originally came from, darling. Rob was going over some of his old research. There's a whole community who would have known his ancestors, and yours, love. From there we can go up to Charlottetown. Rob's able to take the entire week."

"You mean – _this_ week?"

"Yes, love," Tessa's look was careful. "We thought we might leave tomorrow."

"But David can't come if we leave tomorrow!"

Her mother then directed them both to sit on the lounge, as seriously as she had that excruciatingly awkward morning after her own _sleepover_ with Rob; if that was a forerunner to their discussion now things would not go well.

"Darling, I need you to listen, and what's more to _hear_ what I'm trying to say. David has his MCAT coming up soon. He needs to start preparing himself, mentally and physically. The dreadful thing is _seven and a half hours long,_ Anne."

"Mom, I _know_ that!"

"And after, love, he needs to start thinking of his future. Rob's gone through the process with me. He'll receive his result around a month afterwards, and then start making arrangements for interviews to various medical schools, should they request it. He has to shore up recommendations and jump through various other hoops and entrance requirements, depending on the university. He'll have to decide to do an honours year at Redmond or take a gap year and work to offset his course costs. He doesn't know which schools will make him an offer and where he'll end up. It could be Nova Scotia or Saskatchewan…"

"Mom! I _have_ heard this from David himself actually! I can't see what this has to do with us rushing off to Avonlea!"

"Darling, you _have_ been spending a _lot_ of time together…"

Anne reddened in indignation. "Mom, how can you _say_ that when you and Rob have been –"

"Don't go there Anne, please! Rob and I just think that you and David could do with…well… some breathing space."

" _Breathing space?"_ Anne repeated suspiciously.

"Oh, sweetheart…" her mother reached out to stroke her hair, "I'm just realizing how very _young_ you are… you are so mature in some ways but in others…"

" _What_ others, Mom?" Anne questioned stubbornly, shrugging off that hand with a mulish turn of her head, so that it fell back to Tessa's side, ineffectually.

"Darling, you _know_ what I'm talking about."

"I thought you said that you were so glad David is such a gentleman!"

"I _am_ glad, Anne – _very_ glad - and I still believe that wholeheartedly, but that doesn't stop the two of you from having feelings and… acting on them."

"Sort of like our parents."

Tessa gave an expressive roll of usually warm brown eyes, rapidly beginning to cool. "Yes, wonderful, I was just waiting for the teenager to show up."

"Yep, go large on the sarcasm, Mom."

"Not _sarcasm,_ Miss Ford. _Realism._ " Tessa sighed.

Anne sat back on her chair with a huff. "Well, now you've lost me."

Her mother's look in that moment was unbearably fond. "You don't think that I have been grateful for the kind and thoughtful way you and David have tiptoed around Rob and I these past weeks? Allowing us a little, ah, _time_ together without fuss or recriminations? I have been trying to repay the favour – really I have, darling. So I don't blame you now for seeing the obvious irony of the situation. But sweetheart, the wish still stands. David _does_ need to study, without any distractions. And I beg of you to get a little distance from him, just for a little while. Things have been rather _intense_ around here. It helps when you're not always in the eye of the storm."

"That's all very well, Mom, but _you're_ still going to be with Rob, and _I'll_ be this sad third wheel and _David_ will be all by himself chained to his desk. None of that comes off as fair!"

Tessa sighed again, deep in thought.

"You're right, love. Well, then… I'll ring Rob."

"Mom… you don't _have_ to cancel…" Anne bit back her victorious smile.

There was a dramatic pause, and then Tessa Ford arched a perfect dark brow.

"I'm _not,"_ she gave a knowing smile in return, which she made no attempt to cover. "I'm ringing Rob to say, regretfully, I think it's best if you and I go on our own."

* * *

The next day they were soon back amongst those red roads and rolling hills, under a tauntingly picturesque sky, though Anne frowned out of her window and stubbornly longed for the sight and sound and smell of the sea.

"Isn't it lovely?" Her mother encouraged, and Anne shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance, holding fast to her affront. She had endured an almost tearful farewell with David that morning – from _her_ end at least – though she couldn't have imagined that wistful look on his lean, handsome face, and she _certainly_ hadn't imagined the three part-joking texts she had received from him in the hours since… _I miss you… I still miss you… OK, I SERIOUSLY miss you…_

Tessa looked across to her daughter, smiling in sympathy.

"Darling, if it's any consolation, I felt the same when I first met your father, you know. Not bearing to be parted from him, hours that felt like days, that sort of thing."

Anne stilled. There had been very little talk of her father since Rob Blythe had happened across Tessa in the hotel bar.

"You weren't much older than me when you met him, were you?"

"Nineteen," Tessa smiled wistfully. "Second year of drama school, just really beginning to make friends and get used to being in the big city… and then my girlfriend convinced me to go along for an open call for a new play."

"Had you… heard of Dad, before that?" Anne had asked the question many times but wondered if she would glean more information now.

"Oh, the Fords were always rather a _presence_ in Toronto, love. So I absolutely knew the name. And who doesn't know the _Life Book_ connection? There had been a lot of advance press about your dad adapting it. It was going to be an exciting opportunity for actors to workshop it – actors love feeling they are involved in the creative process, and not just glorified mouthpieces. So there was a definite buzz about it. A Canadian classic, adapted by one of our own, and a descendant no less… you can imagine how the press liked _that._ And it didn't hurt that the writer-director was rich and talented and rather easy on the eye…" she smiled knowingly.

"How did you get the role of Lost Margaret?"

"Haven't you heard this story enough times?" Tessa asked indulgently.

"No!" Anne finally offered a grin.

"Well… there was a _sea_ of girls at the call – no pun intended – who were dressed up as if they'd stepped out of a pioneer settlement. They all presumed that your dad was going to keep strictly to the nineteenth century timeline… but I knew he was cleverer and more creative than that, and _also_ I'd read a little known article in one of the stage magazines, about how he wanted to shift the action and the story back and forth, between the story of Captain Jim and of Owen, to a modern girl who may or may not be Margaret's possible descendant, had she survived. And how Margaret and the girl would be likely played by the same actress. So I went in as myself, and read a passage of the script as Margaret, wearing a scarf around my head, and then I slipped it off and continued, without break, as the modern girl, as if Margaret was narrating from the past and then…"

"…you finished her sentence. You finished the thought for her."

"Yes, love," Tessa winked. "It worked a treat! I survived all the culls, and then in the end it was… just me."

"I'm sure the fact you were talented _and_ gorgeous didn't hurt," Anne groaned, but her mind was already on other things. "Mom, do you think that's _really_ possible? That someone might have a connection like that to a person and then… and then… still walk around as themselves?"

"How do you mean, Anne?"

"Um… well… that there might be, um, a _soul_ connection to a person from the past, and that you might be linked to them in the present?"

Tessa was silent for several moments. "Love, is that how you feel… about your dad?"

" _Dad?"_

"Because, sweetheart, it's natural to want to feel he's not really gone. Especially here, on the Island, seeing places he had a connection to. To feel he's still _with_ us. And he is… he always will be… but Anne, I'd hate you stuck on the idea that he's directing your thoughts… directing your life… because that's not healthy. You could become fixated and not be free to be your own person…"

"Mom…"

"And I _do_ worry about you and David, too… I know he still feels the loss of his mother, and you've both had a hard, emotional couple of years… and that you might feel bonded over that, but it in turn makes you rather vulnerable to… to… _heightened_ feelings…"

"Mom! It's just… it's not _that!_ It's OK! We're not about to conduct a séance, or…" _or jump into bed together…_ she swallowed, "or anything."

"Well… OK…" Tessa didn't look completely convinced. "But please, darling, come and talk to me. About anything. I know I may have seemed… distracted. But you are my priority, always. _Please_ know that."

"Thanks, Mom…" Anne mumbled. "It's OK. I do."

Anne bit her lip, leapfrogging to yet another problematic thought. _We're not about… to jump into bed together._

Her heartbeat quickened, thinking that her mother might observe her sudden, guilty flush. And in an instant she was back with David in those sand dunes of the other day, tasting the salt of the sea on his lips, his body pressed into hers, his hands, for the very first time, not _quite_ as polite as they had been…

"Mom?"

"Yes, love?"

"How much longer have we got?"

"Till we arrive? About ten minutes."

"No…" Anne's brow furrowed. "I meant _here,_ on PEI, before we have to go home?"

Tessa now frowned herself, making some mental calculations. "Twelve days. No, today was eleven."

Anne's heart now raced. She continued to gnaw on her lip relentlessly, all the way till they zoomed past the proud sign, welcoming them to the township of Avonlea.

* * *

 _Oh, God_. It was happening again. Those first flutterings of recognition; the butterfly wings, deep in her belly.

She had become acclimatized to that feeling in Glen St Mary; she had been to Ingleside so many times that she barely noticed the gauzy veil of the past anymore. And David's features had become so interchangeable with the vision of _that_ boy in her head that she barely paused to consider the ramifications of this anymore; it had just become an accepted fact. David was that boy… but how could _she_ have been _Rilla,_ when Rilla had grown up in the Glen, living there and then Toronto, her entire life? How could she be Rilla and at the same time know Avonlea?

As had become their practice, they made a slow circuit through the main street and nearby surrounds of the quaint township, its still-rural setting and obviously gentle pace easily conjuring a time of horse and cart; when a boyfriend was a _beau_ and a hankerchief a love token. Anne stared at a landscape largely unchanged in a century or so, trying to quell the wash of memory threatening, this time, to swamp her; the old schoolhouse, now the home of The Avonlea Historical Society; the post office now a tea room; the fields and byways beyond, beckoning.

 _There was a lake… with a bridge. There was a laneway and a gate. There was woodland, and on the edge of it, a large house, white with green trim._

"Well, we'll be close to all the _action,_ as such," Tessa smiled knowingly. "Our B&B is just behind the main street."

"Mom! Can we drive around a little longer? Just, ah, out a bit?"

"Sure. But honey, I don't think there's very much more to it."

There wasn't, and yet there was. _Oh, how there was_. Anne had to blink away the shadow images assaulting her, as if dust blowing in the wind, obscuring her vision. Children running, in little caps and knee-high breeches or plain pinafores with white aprons, mouths open in silent laughter. Dancers coming out of the hall, long skirts trailing. A lake indeed; still waters shining in the sunlight, and a curved wooden bridge spanning it. And then… a wood.

"Mom, can you just take this turn up here?"

"Anne, what's this all about, love? There's nothing up this way."

But there _was;_ a sign, and then a turn, and a long approach to a big old house, set back from the road beside the woods; bordered by an orchard and beyond that, undulating fields of gold. She could almost taste the crisp tang of a just-plucked apple in her mouth. She could almost feel the sun on her face, rising in the morning as _she_ had, writing and dreaming in her little garret room.

"Anne…"

"Mom! We _have_ to stay here!"

Tessa looked dubiously at the sign by the steps to the verandah, in ornate green lettering on a white background; _Green Gables Guest House._

"Anne, love, we already have a booking, right in the town center. And we don't even know if they're taking any guests here." Brown eyes travelled, unconvinced, to the lone car, almost forsaken in the little carpark, which looked too old to be the hire car of a cavalier holidaymaker from the mainland. The _vacancy_ addendum under the sign proper swung forlornly in the breeze at that very moment, in clear reproach to such thoughts.

"Please, Mom. I just… I just have a _feeling_ about this place."

Infact, she had so _many_ feelings about this place it was impossible to harness them all; they floated and swirled about her as dandelion tufts, passing by her, tantalizingly close and then rudely snatched away on the wind. Whether the memories were wishes or no, she couldn't say.

Her mother was frowning, which meant she was relenting. "Alright, it won't hurt to take a look."

They were at the steps when the green front door opened, and a genial looking lady, around her mother's age with a ready smile and pretty blonde features, stepped down to meet them; whether in excited greeting or possible waylay it was difficult to tell.

"Hello! Are you looking for some rooms?"

"Hello," Tessa answered, raising her brows to her daughter's imploring look. "Yes, we would be, thank you, if any are available. For one or two nights?"

"As many nights as you would like," the woman rejoined cheerfully. "It's been a slow summer for us, I'm afraid. So warm that everyone's fled to the coast."

"We've just come from there, actually. My daughter here, Anne, and myself. A little place called Glen St Mary. You've probably never heard of it," Tessa smiled.

"Sure I have!" came the enthusiastic reply, and the woman's hazel eyes sparked at the thought. "But it's a name I haven't heard of in years. And then, what do you know, about a week ago, I get a call from Beth at the Historical Society, saying some man from the Glen who contacted them is asking about title deeds to this place, and one of the farms the other side of the woods, trying to find links to his family."

Anne flashed a grin, admiring the very composed look on her mother's face.

"That's fascinating. Did you find any?" Tessa asked, nonplussed.

"Well… it's a long story," the woman offered. "But the short answer is… possibly. Indirectly, mind." The woman took a new look at Anne, eyes suddenly curious and assessing. "Well, I'm very pleased to welcome you both to Green Gables."

"Thank you. Oh, and I'm Tessa Ford."

"Ford…" the woman mused. "No, can't say as I've heard of that one."

Now it was Tessa's turn to grin. "No need to have done." There was always, with a certain generation, the prospect of recognition, usually of the _weren't you the one?_ variety. Her mother was always pleased when recent anonymity trumped past notoriety.

"And I'm Amanda Wright."

Would you like some help with your bags, Ms Ford?"

"Oh no, thanks, we'll be fine."

"Well all the same, come on through to reception, and I'll get my husband to carry your things upstairs. We have four lovely guestrooms, all with ensuite bathroom. You're welcome to have a look at each and take your pick."

"Do you have a garret room available? Up the very top?" Anne piped up excitedly.

"The attic room?" Amanda Wright laughed. "Oh, love, there's barely room to swing a cat up there. Really, we only offer it in emergencies. Though you're welcome to it, at a reduced rate of course, should you want it."

" _Attic_ room? _Really,_ Anne!" Tessa shook her head in mock despair, even as her daughter, eyes shifting to green as of the door, bit her lip to stop from grinning at the thought.

* * *

Anne (via text): _I am in a little attic room in this big old guest house. It's quaint and wonderful._

 _David: Which means Slightly Rundown._

 _Anne: It's not! Well, not much. The woman who runs it says it has been in her family for years…_

 _David: That's the one Dad was asking about?_

 _Anne: Yes, but her family are the Keiths, though she married a guy called Joe Wright. No mention of Blythes though, so your dad struck out, I think._

 _David: Oh, don't worry, that won't stop him!_

 _Anne: How did your study go today?_

David: _Oh, good. By which I mean it was torture. YOU are in this little writer's garret. I'M in a too-hot, too-messy bedroom, decorated with abandoned MCAT tests and junk food wrappers. And my dad is on the phone to your mom, but I don't think they're discussing title deeds._

Anne: _Same old, same old…_

David: _Has it been warm today, where you are?_

Anne: _Pretty warm._

David: _Kinda hot?_

Anne: _I guess so._

David: _Probably too hot to wear much to bed?!_

Anne: _It's Avonlea, not Barbados!_

David: _Mmm…_

Anne: _Actually, we went around the town a little bit today, and to the Historical Society. They are tracking some photos for your dad. It had a nice little ye olde gift shop. All these cute floaty Victorian nightgowns… I might have bought one._

David: _You bought a cute floaty Victorian nightgown?_

Anne: _I might have._

David: _I guess… I can work with that._

Anne: _Huh?_

David: _You are adorable, Anne Ford._

Anne: _So they keep telling me!_

David: _I guess… I might still be missing you._

Anne: _I might… be missing YOU._

David: _Really?_

Anne: _Almost positively._

 _David: Good to know. Well, I'd better turn in. Lots more exciting study tomorrow._

 _Anne: Sorry about that…_

 _David: Sweet dreams, Anne xxx_

 _Anne: Sweet dreams, Gerald xxx_

* * *

Anne stared at her phone for long minutes after, in the gentle, warm glow of the lamp from the side table, before nestling it in the drawer for safe keeping. She drew her knees up to her chest, watching the filmy curtains waltz against the window, carried on the breeze which brought the sweet scent of apple blossom, seasoned with salt from the distant shore. Crossing over to the full-length mirror inside the little wardrobe, she pondered her reflection; the long ago dream-girl of the garret contemplating her in turn.

… _In another time, she fancied to stare at the naked flame of a candle until it burnt itself down to a puddle of molten wax. She scratched out letters by it sitting at an upright desk made of rough hewn wood that still carried the faint forest-scent of its source. She read by it till the darkness shrouded the little east gable room and her grey eyes diverted to the darting shadows on the wall as they entertained in mesmeric dance. She prayed by it, pale hands clasped reverently, mouthing her unchanging incantation for nut-brown hair, and perhaps a few less freckles…_ ********

… _that she wasn't dreaming at all, but had been flung back through time, catapulted through the centuries. She would leap from the bed and pace, and she could almost feel the starched swish of a long nightdress with fluted sleeves, and her cascading hair held in a thick braid resting over her shoulder, and the creaking floorboards resisting her weight, and the kiss of the branches of a tree, blossoms snow white, against her window when it swayed in the wind. And then she would catch herself, and try to laugh. It was a dream. It was a nonsense…_

 _It was a madness…_ ********

It was _neither._

Anne gathered her hair with trembling fingers, braiding it slowly, watching herself through trance-like grey eyes as she did so, until she fastened the braid and let it fall over one shoulder. The low light shimmered an otherworldly echo upon her; the breeze through the open window drifted around and up and under… the white nightgown with long sleeves and delicate piping around the wrists and neckline moved of its own accord; floating around her, with so much superfluous material she billowed as if her own sail.

 _Superfluous. Am I superfluous to_ your _happiness, Anne Alexandra Ford?_

 _Essential,_ she should have said. She had wanted to say. _You are essential to my happiness._

She closed her eyes and imagined him as he had looked at her that day in the dunes; with something more than affection in his kiss and more than mere curiosity guiding his hands, and the weight of his body anchoring her in the sand. She swayed now as his hands roamed across her… large Blythe hands that knew her, brushing the pointed peaks of her breasts with his palm… trailing long surgeon's fingers from clavicle to coxal… resting with possessive wanting on her stomach… and then finding that place at her throat with his lips that made her arch backwards into him, gasping in both delight and…

' _Anne-girl…' he murmured into her ear._

' _Gilbert…' she sighed._

Anne's eyes snapped open, and the room spun about her. The flush to her cheeks made her grey-green eyes blaze, and the sheen of sweat on her brow matched her panting breaths, and the sudden still heat in the room fired her body as if a furnace, and the shadow in the mirror held her body and her gaze for half a second; David; older, mature, knowing, needy…

 _No… not_ David.

With a startled cry she ripped off the nightgown and plunged into bed, nearly naked and trembling.

 _*Probably too hot to wear much to bed…?*_

She hugged the pillow to her, curled up on the narrow mattress in the little east gable room, blinking back bewildered tears, thighs pressed close in erotic effort to hold tightly to whatever sensation that was or would have been.

Her breaths slowed, and the room receded to normality. But something long slumbering was awakened, and wouldn't let her rest; not till dawn's fingers stretched to close her eyes against the glare of the new day.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

The title quotation is taken from Robert Browning's famous narrative poem _The Ring and the Book,_ beginning with the following section, which I have quoted some of before;

" _O lyric Love, half-angel and half-bird_

 _And all a wonder and a wild desire, -_

 _Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun,_

 _Took sanctuary within the holier blue._

 _And sang a kindred soul out to his face…"_

* _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 12)

**Please see everything _**elizasky,**_ in particular _Glen Notes_ (Ch 37 _'Realism and Romance'_ ). Rob Blythe is certainly one to follow _all_ the various traditions of Blythe men (there are others alluded to here). Quite scrupulously.

***William Shakespeare _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 1 Sc 5)

**** all from _Rilla of Ingleside_ (Ch 5)

*****Maslow's _Hierarchy of Needs_. In 1943 Abraham Maslow had published his 'A Theory of Human Motivation' in _Psychological Review,_ later fully expressed in his book _Motivation and Curiosity_ (1954).He identified that humans had five stages of growth, represented in a pyramid, with the base _physiological_ needs at the bottom, rising through _safety, love and belonging_ (the yellow level) to _esteem_ and finally the top of the pyramid, _self actualisation._ When Anne and David parry regarding the _love and belonging_ level, they are flirting around the idea of these 'needs' as outlined being _friends, family…_ and _sexual intimacy._

It is not my desire here to enter the debate regarding the problematic nature of this concept with regard to culture, race, religion, geographic region, gender, disability or even the _needs_ as related to situations of war or external threats as opposed to peace time. Suffice to say Anne and David here are happy to accept a very rudimentary reading of the _Hierarchy._

*******referencing both the novel _Possession_ (1990) by A.S. Byatt (Ch 10 for interest) and the film of the same name with Gwyneth Paltrow, Aaron Eckhart, Jennifer Ehle and JEREMY NORTHAM. The book is a seminal reading experience, and you won't be the same, and has been a key inspiration for this fanfic foray into memory, history, family, poetry, letters, diaries, talismans and love across time. Both the novel and its lovely adaptation (2002) can't come more highly recommended.

For those who have seen the film, I need not explain why Jeremy Northam's name was capitalised.

********quoting Chapter 1 of _Betwixt the Stars._ Don't worry if you've forgotten. I posted that first chapter _eight_ months ago (*sigh*)


	10. Old Claims Renewed

**Author's Note:**

 _Goodness this has been a long time coming, hasn't it?! I could blame typhoid and Halloween both, for readers of those other escapades, but the truth of the matter is I had lost my mojo with this story, and so this chapter has been three-quarters finished for about the last six weeks…_

 _But here we are, back again, and thank you one and all for anyone who has gone back to read it in the interim, or offered a new follow or review/pm. I really, really appreciate it! Again, I will touch base with all of you when I can. Please don't think I don't care if it takes me a long time. Apologies in particular to LizzyEastwood, kslchen and Alinyaalethia who have been so generous and so neglected by me._

 _This is the tenth chapter (which I have split due to length) of most likely fourteen in the first act of what I consider to be a three act play (ha! 'The Land of Heart's Desire' is absolutely a five act enterprise!) The second act will be shorter (in length, at least!) and will cover five years (this first act, aside from flashbacks, has been merely a single summer!), before we are in the third act where the pace will again slow. I appreciate if it is sometimes hard to follow, as it has time jumps and a large cast of characters, as well as some carefully choreographed canon and elizasky New Canon continuity. And I won't even start on Whitman or the 80's music and film references. There's a lot going on!_

 _Thank you to long-term readers for sticking with this, and a warm welcome to any new readers._

 _Thank you to **elizasky** for her beta read and encouragement of this and the next chapter. __And, obviously, for New Canon Carl._

 _I humbly dedicate this chapter to_ _ **Anne O' the Island.**_ I am sure she'll remember why x

 _With love,_

 _MrsVonTrapp x_

* * *

 **Chapter Ten**

 **'** _ **Old Claims Renewed'**_

* * *

 _ **Interlude: Melissa Meredith**_

 _ **From Lowbridge to Four Winds, PEI, December 31**_ _ **st**_ _ **1989**_

On the last day of the last year of another decade, Mel and Rob helped their respective fathers, Tim Meredith and James Blythe, quietly complete the move of Old Uncle Carl into the shiny new aged care home at Four Winds, high up on the hill overlooking the gulf, in sight of the lighthouse and of the cawing gulls, and built into the slope below the still-snug little House of Dreams.

Uncle Carl had come back from Christmas in Charlottetown, fattened on Auntie Nan's housekeeper's nut roast, crafted to her mistress's exacting standards. There had also been a cavalcade of confections of her own making that owed more to art than to dessert (though in an amused and puzzling aside he was thankful that something called Candle Salad, * which perhaps had once aspired to be both, did not put in a reappearance). The house on the Lowbridge Road, once blissfully private, now felt worryingly isolated; less of a home now, with two of its previous occupants gone from them, and Uncle Carl fearing he might be reduced to talking to the walls, having years ago confessed to similar one-sided conversations with the pear trees. The draught worried his bones, the garden gnawed at his conscience, and the loneliness troubled both his heart and his sanity.

It was time.

Before departing the Lowbridge house, Mel and Rob took a last turn around the garden with him, nodding sagely over his instructions for when to water this and fertilize that, though the gardener under new employ to come every fortnight once the snows cleared was doubtless capable. There would also be a willing army of volunteers to check in on the house, with many boxes still up in the attic, and bigger furniture still in place, newly dusted, if and when Carl decided to rent it out. Though a great many of Carl's most precious possessions were poised to make the trek to Four Winds – perhaps more than his single, nicely-appointed room at the Home could hold or handle – they could be sorted through more considerately in light of his new surrounds, and then safeguarded as necessary by either Merediths or Blythes at their own residences should the need arise.

They all waited outside whilst Uncle Carl took a final, lone tour of the rooms, his still-sprightly shuffle sounding as loudly as the memories, of this place in which he had seen sixty years.

Watching him come back out, patting down his streaming blue eye with his hankerchief, Mel had to turn away, the naked pain of this particular parting too great. Would a mere house ever have as much meaning for _her_? She had lived her childhood in a neat, nondescript little weatherboard, the rent of which was all her young-married parents could afford; and then on top of one another in the manse; and then into the big, bluff, modern house at the top of the Glen main street; and lately in a shared dorm room at college. She didn't seem to have any attachment to anywhere. And then, she felt a hand on her shoulder, briefly and ever-gently; a large Blythe hand, warm on her through winter layers, and looked up into loving hazel eyes and soft smile.

"He'll be OK," Rob murmured to her. "We'll all make sure of it."

She nodded, throat tight, sniffing loudly against her tears, which earned her such a look of burning affection from him it would have given the game away between them entirely, had anyone seen it. But the fathers were bracing their Great Uncle either side as they encouraged him to the first car; the one with the handsome twin tan leather recliners lashed precariously to the roof rack, and so Rob walked her down, occasionally touching his fingers to hers in shared solidarity.

 _Ingleside. That_ place meant something to her, she realised with a revelatory pang as she darted a glance back to Rob before jumping in with her father and Uncle Carl, the Blythes making up the rear of their little procession. More specifically, an upstairs bedroom at Ingleside, where she might happily live out the rest of her days.

They drew away from the Lowbridge house, standing starkly silent in the snowy surrounds, and Mel sent up a silent promise to Uncle Shirley for Uncle Carl, and to the pear trees too, feeling that its story wasn't quite finished… _yet._

XXXXX

No one had been more surprised than Melissa herself to realise her affinity for older folk; the first of her fourth year work placements before Christmas had been a very successful stint at an aged care facility not unlike the one she now considered with knowing eye, as they settled Uncle Carl into his room with a little less fanfare than apparently had greeted the redoubtable Mary Vance Douglas when the Home had opened its doors six years before. The halls were certainly quieter now for that infamous lady's own recent passing, and rather less prey to profane interjections, though she supposed infinitely more dull.

Uncle Carl had looked around the pleasant, nondescript room with its unitarian furniture and very white walls, remarking wryly that this was Uncle Shirley's sort of abode. Although the changes they could make were only cosmetic, the brocade curtains, threaded with gold purchased by her mother that Melissa was already hanging at the window, to match the cheery set of yellow ceramic vases crated by special courier all the way from Toronto, were adding a vibrant sunburst of warmth to the sterile surrounds. Rob and the fathers were busily back and forth from the cars to the room, waylaid by curious residents, for whom a new arrival was exciting news, and Dr James Blythe especially curtailed by more than a few who thought he was on site today to see to their ailments, ahead of his regular rounds. This gave Melissa and Uncle Carl more than enough time to begin to rehome the momentos of four score and another decade or so in change; a Cuban cigar box full of photos, with many more framed and jostling for space on bedside table and bookcase; a watercolor of some fantastically hued geese; a stuffed shelf of sacred books. And in the specially locked cabinet, protected from both prying eyes and overzealous cleaners alike, a box in which resided an urn. Carl hadn't made this move alone and unaccompanied, in _any_ respect… _That you are here_ … _That the powerful play goes on._ **

Carl now sat on the bed, the emotion of the day catching him in his exhaustion, though he rallied to advise on the proper placement of his books, one in particular catching her eye as she lifted it for inspection.

"I thought you had two of these, Uncle Carl?" Mel questioned politely.

Carl reached for the comfort of the worn green cover, passing a hand over it and smiling in salutation, as to an old friend.

"We did. Shirley gave a copy to Gil Ford… though I never thought _he_ was one for poetry."

Mel gave a polite snort, glancing again at the title. " _Leaves of Grass…_ you know Rob used to think that was some sort of botany manual."

Carl chuckled in pleasure, even as the young man in question came dragging a suitcase of clothes, rounding the corner into the room.

"I thought _what,_ Miss Meredith?" he huffed good naturedly, eyes lifting to hers in twinkling Blythe fashion.

Melissa indicated the tome perched on Uncle Carl's knee. "We were just discussing _poetry,_ not _botany_ ," she smiled indulgently.

Rob approached the bed, glancing at Carl, the book, and then back to her. He might have once worn a chagrined blush and sheepish smile to match, but now he smirked unrepentantly.

"Well, then, I guess I need to be re-educated," he gave somewhat silky reply, holding her eye for a beat that promised many more lessons back and forth between them, though hardly of a literary nature.

She felt the breath lodge in her chest, and the blush that surfaced was her own.

Rob seemed to remember himself, and their audience, and stepped back, giving Carl a warm smile.

"Uncle Carl, we just have the recliners to go. I'll help Dad and Uncle Tim with them."

"Ah, terrific, son."

Mel watched him disappear with a new wistfulness, wondering if they would snatch any more time alone together before their return to Redmond was upon them, and this magical winter interlude would melt in the glare of work and responsibilities awaiting them. Turning to Uncle Carl she saw him noting her carefully, his blue eye lighting with a new realisation.

"It seems as if you both had a very merry Christmas…" he gave a sly grin.

His tone was too leading for it to be an innocent comment, though she determinedly treated it us such, nodding and beginning to prattle about presents and overlong dinners and fussing with more books, till such time as her companion began to shake his head in amusement.

"Love, neither of you are fooling anyone, and I don't know why you would want to."

Melissa opened and closed her mouth in ineffective, unexpressed denial. She was not about to start lying to Uncle Carl, but she didn't know if she wanted to _yawp over the roofs of the world_ *** about it yet, either.

"Uncle Carl… we… that is, I…" she stuttered, uncharacteristically flustered, "it's still quite recent and new with us and… ah… we're still trying to figure it out."

Carl smiled softly. "And who decided to keep it a secret while you were _figuring it out?_ "

There was an uncertain pause. "Me," she blurted the confession on a frustrated breath.

He nodded sadly. 'Well, lovely Melissa, we called this years ago, Shirley and I. Though I had more faith in young Rob getting there in the end than _he_ did."

Mel felt her mouth dropping yet again in astonishment. "You _talked_ about us?"

Carl Meredith gave his own knowing, unashamed smile. "I always did like to prove Shirley wrong. It didn't happen very often."

Melissa found herself trying to process this information on the hoof, darting a glance at the door guiltily.

"Our parents don't know… we wanted to play it cool. You know, Uncle Carl? Not have everyone get hysterical and start to knit baby clothes."

"Of course, love… but it just seems unnecessary to me. It's no fun keeping your happiness hidden. I wouldn't wish that for anyone."

Melissa colored, shamed, eyes straying to the photos newly displayed; one in particular, a studio portrait of Squadron Leader Shirley J Blythe, in all his uniformed handsomeness, dating from a time when happiness _had_ to be hidden, and discovery would have had so very many unfathomable ramifications.

Mel was silent, throat thick and inexplicable tears welling, not quite able to meet that deep dark blue eye, so very like her own.

A great commotion behind her heralded two Blythes and one Meredith, jointly struggling with the first of the heavy recliners, comically tortured in the attempt and falling into the room, rasping their breaths. Rob, as tall as his russet-haired father and impressively broader, if that were even possible, straightened with a grin, rolling his eyes at her in silent acknowledgement of the older mens' theatrics.

She felt the smile on her lips just to look at him, this wonderful man who had waited so long to make her his, and _still_ waited, poised at their chessboard; a faithful knight to her feckless queen.

Without a thought she crossed the room and planted a very deliberate kiss on his surprised, warm but not unwilling lips, for the benefit of the gawping gallery, if not herself.

Tim Meredith slid into the recliner with a loud moan. " _Here_ we go…" he shook his head ruefully.

James Blythe exchanged a look and a smile with Uncle Carl over her head, leaning against the chair to whack his cousin and friend affectionately on the arm.

"You owe me twenty dollars!" Dr Blythe announced, smile morphing to grin and winking at his son.

Mel turned her face up to Rob's, who was looking too pleased with what had transpired in the past moments to be at all embarrassed by the attention.

"You've let the cat out of the bag?" he whispered to her, raising a dark eyebrow, grin absolutely in place, hand unsure if it should stray to her waist.

"Call it a New Year's resolution."

He chuckled delightedly, drawing her into his arms, ignoring the other three men smirking at them; eyes only for her.

"I can't _believe_ they _bet_ on us," he groaned.

"I will _always_ bet on us from now on, Robert James Blythe," she declared fiercely. Once she may have cringed at such a tired and tiresome trope; a line fit for the worst of rom-coms; a long ago line belonging to a _Maverick_ and a _Goose._ But perhaps some romance was allowed within the realism… and at any rate, the words were for _him,_ and his kiss back to her shouted his approval of her vow.

* * *

The long night before made for a short morning after, and by the time Anne had ventured downstairs from the Green Gables Guest House's garret room, halting and hollow-eyed, it was to a table laden for brunch rather than breakfast, and to a message from Amanda Wright to say her mother hadn't wanted to disturb her sleep and had gone into town.

She looked around her, to the shadow-features of the past, overlaid upon the present, but they comforted, here, rather than confused.

"I'm sorry to have been so long…" Anne began her apology, to the determined shake of her hostess's blonde head.

"No need to apologise, love – it's _your_ holiday. I only hope your later appearance is due to a _good_ sleep and not the lack of it." She looked at Anne with the disconcertingly all-seeing gaze of someone who was a mother herself, and Anne hoped she had effectively concealed the new faint bruises under her eyes, let alone the vague air of unease she wore.

"Thank you… for waiting for me. This all looks lovely."

"Well, it's good to have someone to cook for, frankly. So – I can offer you pancakes, eggs any way you like, or you're welcome to something lighter…"

Anne's stomach recoiled at the thought of anything actually making its way down to her digestive tract, but the poor woman had been waiting around for her all morning. "Toast would be… wonderful. Thank you."

"Well, that's fine, too. Though don't be surprised if I sneak in a waffle. There's nothing of you to speak of." Her smile began carefully but grew wide. "It's a novelty having a young woman here. If anyone comes to stay they are mostly couples or retirees. My boys are always complaining of boredom, until we want them to help out with anything, that is."

"You have boys?"

" _Twins_ ," Mrs Wright have an impressive eye roll, and within the action spoke years of toil and trouble. "Still at school, but currently causing havoc for their dad at home."

"Home… that's the house behind here?"

"We sub-divided the land, and built a little place out back," Amanda Wright confirmed, crossing over to the kitchenette off the dining room. "There's a few antiques still about – the sideboard by Reception for instance. I wasn't going to trust my boys with the heirlooms – _or_ the wallpaper."

Amanda Wright and her good nature disappeared around the corner, but soon returned with juice and coffee.

"I do hope you won't find things too quiet here yourself, love, and that there's enough action for you."

Anne tried her utmost to keep her expression politely impassive, when all she wanted to do was to burst into flame, remembering the too-real adventures of the previous evening. _Anne-girl…_ that voice had called to her, conjuring the image of _him_ , feverishly, fascinatingly adult, not a hint of the boy that still lingered about David in his lighter, unguarded moments. _Gilbert…_ she had breathed in return, swooning against him, the flash of memory so real in that fleeting instant that …

She took a shaking hand to the glass of apple juice before her, pressing it to her lips.

Well, then, there it was… _Anne… Gilbert…_ Certainly not _Rilla,_ though the knowledge came as no surprise, and perhaps, if she was honest, _Gilbert_ didn't either. The shared looks with David, the link of a medical career, the instant notion of seeing him and knowing him… And _he_ had known _her…_ that other Anne, with an intimacy that made her mouth run dry all over again, despite the soothing liquid she gulped down. The Blythes had come from Avonlea; had Anne Blythe, too? She tried to visualise the top of that particular family tree, but the names and dates blurred before her, and instead all she could see with any clarity were those eyes in the mirror, and the naked lust that had fired them.

Had David looked at _her_ like that?

 _Yes…_

 _But…_

His actions did not completely follow through on his looks… excepting down in the dunes, and perhaps once before that, in the garden at Ingleside, pained and upset over his mother and her legacy of the Lowbridge house. But mostly… mostly… he was… _gentlemanly._

Anne frowned to herself. Was he _too_ gentlemanly? When did a virtue tip over into disinterest? When did respect become a rebuke? Was she not attractive enough? Could she not enflame anyone's passion, least of all _his?_

She knew what that passion was meant to look like, now. And she'd had the flash of the _feel_ of it, too.

She sighed into the toast that had arrived in her distraction, and Amanda Wright, with a bemused gleam, prepared to leave her be.

 _Passion…_ she had no letters to prompt it, like in _Possession,_ and no story of past lovers to link to it, save what her mind chose to reveal to her… or unless… it was forced to face it.

"Mrs Wright?" Anne gasped out at the woman's retreating form. "Do you have a little map of the walks you can do around here?"

* * *

Her mother had absolutely forbidden her from going into the woods alone, but there was nothing stopping her from wandering generally, drifting, in all respects, towards the lake. The feverish pinpricks of recognition were like reverse goosebumps across her flesh, making her skin tingle, and she viewed it with a sense that not only had she known the calm expanse of water, shining in the sunlight, but that _it_ had known _her…_ _a pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding was it. A bridge spanned it midway and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many shifting hues-the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no name has ever been found. Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringing groves of fir and maple and lay all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows._ ****

Her heart thrummed, and she sat on the edge of the bank, amongst the reeds, contemplating. Her lips moved of their own accord, in a silent recitation her brain couldn't quite catch. Her mouth skittered over the words. But she knew she had repeated them long ago, and she knew she had said them _here._

 _What if she tried to dredge up the memory; force it into shape? Force it to the_ surface _?_

 _If she did now what she had once done, would her soul remember?_

She was not the world's most confident swimmer. There was something about a wild, broad body of water, of uncertain depth and danger, that panicked her. She was never entirely comfortable out on the harbour with Grandad Tom, and she had terrible visions of slipping below the surface even at the local pool. Her beachside exploits with David had focused more on watching the waves than diving into them; she had begged off with mutterings of the dangers of sunburn to pale, freckled skin and the startling effects of saltwater on her hair, and really, swimming was an interruption to flirting and kissing, and he had been very prepared to forgo the former to concentrate most wholeheartedly on the latter.

But now, she welcomed the churning in her gut, because it heightened the connection to _then._ To _before..._ Before, when she had been the woman held by her husband in the mirror's reflection. But Anne Blythe had also been a girl… who had definitely been out on a boat on the water, _this_ stretch of water, with the sound of lovely, lilting words on her tongue, and the girlish laughter of others reaching her across the ripples.

She looked down at herself; the long, green cotton dress she had changed into, unthinkingly. She pulled her hair from its messy morning bun and let the breeze take it, closing her eyes to imagine the water darkening it to auburn, and the gentle current lapping at her ears.

She rose and walked and walked along the edge, away from the bridge, until she came to a little jetty, and a caravan set away up the slope, and a bored boy about her age inside, fiddling with his phone, perched above the signs for various Avonlea undertakings.

 _Fishing pole hire. Bait extra._

 _Paddle boats._

 _Row boat hire._

"Hello," she ventured gamely. "Can I hire a boat, please?"

It took an inordinate amount of time for dull brown eyes to raise themselves to hers. Mouse-brown hair hung lankly over brow and then in unfashionable protest over ears and nape, making her pine for David's clean-cut dark looks. "You over sixteen?" came the question, devoid of polite preamble.

"Yes."

He considered her dubiously. "Cos you can't go out by yourself if you're under sixteen."

"I'm _seventeen_ ," she answered huffily.

"Paddle boat or row boat?"

"Um, row boat."

He raised a laconic eyebrow at her slim shoulders and arms, and she looked down at herself, frowning.

"Okaaay. We have forty minute hire up to two hours. How long?"

She flicked a glance back over the water, biting her lip. "Two hours."

He sighed to himself, as if she had grievously interrupted his day, and shuffled some papers about.

"Right. This is your indemnity form," he droned, unable to beat back his boredom. "No responsibility will be accepted for loss of any valuables or damage to persons or possessions. No responsibility will be accepted in the case of accident or injury. A lifejacket is stowed under the seat which you must wear at all times. Please stay within the boat and do not lean out of the side of the boat at any stage." He jabbed the bottom of the single sheet with his finger. "Sign _here._ "

She signed away with a grim resolution.

"Um, which one?" she gestured to the three dingy dinghies nestled by the water's edge, all faded into similar indeterminate hue.

"Take your pick."

She walked slowly down towards the crafts.

"And be careful!" shouted a voice from behind her. "It's extra if you lose an oar!"

* * *

It was another clear, beautiful day, and the tranquility of the scene could have easily eased her fear, but a calm row on the water wouldn't help her to remember. She needed to be afraid; she needed to lose all reason – perhaps lose _herself –_ in a syncope that was the missing beat and breath of time between two worlds.

She had managed one of the oars, but mostly she was ever-slowly drifting down back towards the far-off bridge. There was not a person to be seen, not even a stray dog that might bark an alert if she came to some danger. Defying all warning, she leaned warily over the side, examining the water for answers, or even the right questions. She sighed. It was useless. What was she even _doing_ here?

There was an awful lot online about past lives. She wasn't the only one out there who thought there was something more… _out there._ The idea of reincarnation – of the regeneration of a soul – was as old as religion itself. There were websites and books and manuals and workshops and courses and films. There had been a quote from Goethe _; I am certain that I have been here as I am now a thousand times before, and I hope to return a thousand times._ That was all very nice, of course, but really she was only interested in this _one_ time… There wasn't really, yet, the yearning in her for some metaphysical or spiritual truth, but instead a very basic one; _how_ had shebeen that other Anne, and _how_ had David been Gilbert, and how did those hovering yesterdays affect their beckoning tomorrows?

In _Somewhere in Time_ *****Christopher Reeve's character Richard had willed himself back to the year 1912, through self hypnosis and the power of suggestion. He had dressed himself in the clothes and accessories of the period and had booked himself into the same hotel room in the same hotel as he had first visited, holding fast to the knowledge that he was going back to what he already knew. He had _Bid Time Return_ in every sense, going back to meet his love Elise, who had first urged him to find her in _his_ present… _Come back to me…_ Anne had booked into the place and commandeered the room she knew _she_ had known; she only needed to understand the one who called to her.

Anne remembered a scene from the film, and a kindly professor with his own idea of time travel, requiring neither flying phone box nor De Lorean…

"… _All the sights around me were part of the past… I conceived a notion… 'What', I asked myself, 'if I attempt to hypnotize my mind?... I closed my eyes and fed a suggestion into my brain… But, I felt exhausted afterwards… It was imperfect; transient… how could it be otherwise? If I was going to try it again… I would disassociate myself entirely from the present; move everything out of sight that could possibly remind me of it… then, who knows?"_ *****

Anne looked around to a landscape that was surely not much changed from what it had been; there were no modern craft out on the water; her own boat was wooden; she had no present-day accruements that would… _wait._ Her life jacket – it was surely more modern than the ones they used to wear, and when exactly was plastic invented? She paused for all of two seconds before unclipping it with shaking fingers, covering it with some sort of hessian sack in the bottom of the boat, and then examined herself for anything else preventing her mission. She even patted herself down, and came to her phone, with debit card tucked inside the cover.

Not exactly nineteenth century.

She tucked it inside her bra instead, which was at least out of sight, and not liable to fall out easily.

 _Breathe… breathe…_ she instructed herself, and inched down until she was reclining at the bottom of the boat, inelegantly sprawled over half of the bench seat, legs dangling down.

 _Close your eyes…_ she demanded in a frightened whisper, just like had happened in the film. _You are from a long time ago, at least one hundred years ago, probably closer to one hundred and fifty… ah… well… you are a teenage girl of long ago, at any rate. You are floating down the river. Well, on the lake. You are thinking of something to recite… you are thinking of a boy… a curly haired boy with hazel eyes, who… who… waits for you down the lane, by the gate… You think of him and think how much he means to you… you think of his name…_

Anne breathed as deeply as she dared, half submerged in a little boat heading for the bridge, willing the memory to take her.

Her lips moved, but no sound emerged, as if it took time to locate the words, reaching back from beyond.

" _Well, I'll… well, I'll…"_ she repeated, though she knew not from where, or why. " _…be Elaine… Elaine… Well, I'll be Elaine…"_

" _Anne, for goodness sake, smile a little,"_ came another voice _. "You know Elaine 'lay as though she smiled.'"_

 _For a few minutes Anne, drifting slowly down, enjoyed the romance of her situation to the full. Then something happened not at all romantic. The flat began to leak… Anne gave one gasping little scream which nobody ever heard…"_ ******

Anne bolted upright, her eyes flying open, the gasp which she had given _then_ given again, but somehow trapped within her body.

 _She was Elaine… she played Elaine. Anne played Elaine._

 _She was Anne…_

She knew it now, past all doubt, and certainly past all sense.

She had been _Anne_ , here in Avonlea, living at Green Gables, playing with her friends, fighting with _him._

Anne looked around her wildly, uncomprehendingly. It was very damp. The bottom of the boat was wet and the hessian sack, buoyed by the life jacket underneath, moved as if on a wave.

Water. _There was water in the boat._

 _They were sinking._

She and Other Anne both.

 _Oh my God._

Anne flung her head either side but nothing and no one came into view, except for the bridge, looming ahead but still a frightening way off.

Anne felt as if she was already moving underwater, so slow and lethargic did she feel… utterly exhausted and spent.

Utterly exhausted?

It was real…. The time jump was real… It had _worked._

Still uncomprehending, Anne bent to reach for the life jacket, nearly tipped the boat over, and saw it break free from under the sack and flip over the side and away.

She stared, her mouth open.

 _Oh my God._

 _She was going to drown._

She was going to drown on this forlorn stretch of water, far from anyone, with her mother never knowing any different, whilst she slipped gently below the surface.

Had she… had she _drowned?_ Had Other Anne _drowned?_ Is that what her fear had always been about? Was _that_ what was going to happen to _her?_

Oh, God! Her mother. Her poor mother. She would have Rob but…

 _David._ His name welled in her throat, preventing her scream. She would never see him again. She would never know his smile or his eyes or his kiss or –

 _Wait._ Other Anne _did not drown._ She moved to Glen St Mary and had a dozen children with Dr Gilbert Blythe. She was _descended_ from one of those children, and so was David, what's more.

 _You will survive this too. Just calm the hell down._

She breathed, she paused, she considered.

 _There was one chance – just one…_

… _it seemed like years while the flat was drifting down and to the bridge and the water rising in it every moment… I knew the only way God could save me was to let the flat float close enough to one of the bridge piles for me to climb up on it…_ ******

Anne had been floating all the while during her panic, and could see the bridge and the pilons quite clearly now. The boat was filling fast, water creeping from her ankles to calves, and there wasn't much time. She brandished an oar to help steer her closer to the bridge and then made a panicked grab at the nearest pole, using the boat to push off against to gain purchase, wrapping arms and legs around the pile as one would a lover, and clung to it as desperately as she would any man she might one day call by such terms. Half her body was now submerged in water that was neither frigid nor warm, but she was thankful at least her phone had been saved, shoved in her bra that…

 _Her phone._ Her eyes widened with the shock of the realisation. If she could just manoeuvre her body she could still have both arms around the pole and grasp it and try to ring her mother, or try Siri for something useful for once other than the lyrics to _Bohemian Rhapsody._

And that's when her breast actually began to buzz, as if someone had her heart on speed dial.

 _David._

She breathed his name to herself even before she twisted her wrist to pull out her phone and press that precious green button.

* * *

David stared at his cell for a moment of complete, genuine shock, and then put it up again to his ear as he started rapidly moving downstairs and through the house.

He had spent all morning doing sections of MCAT mock ups and checking texts from Anne, like some sad puppy waiting by the door for its owner to return.

And then, the incomprehensible pain, like a quick stab in the chest, and then it was gone. Not indigestion but not unlike heartburn, flaring and then subsiding just as quickly. Yes, that was typical. Anne was giving him heartburn in every sense. Just wait till he told her that, and shook his head, smiling uneasily.

He could just ring her _now,_ and tell her that.

He didn't know what made him ring rather than text. Maybe to hear her say his name. Maybe to quell the inexplicable uneasiness that had washed over him, like goosebumps rising over his flesh in a swell of sudden dread. He would ring her to say hello, and he would know he was an idiot, and all was well. And then, her disembodied voice, which hadn't been a reassurance at all…

"Anne, sweetheart," he said now, fighting to keep his voice calm and level. "Just let me get this right. You're in Avonlea, in some sort of lake. The boat sank and there was a bridge…"

"Yes…" came her too-faint reply.

"And you grabbed hold of one of the pilings at the bottom of the bridge, and that's where you are in the lake, right now, just hanging on?"

"Yes!" she claimed more loudly but less steadily. "David, I can't really swim, and it's… it's…"

"Anne, listen to me! I am coming to get you. I'll be there in thirty minutes." _More like forty-five, he thought despairingly, plus the time to actually find her._ "In the meantime I'll keep trying your mom and also the emergency services."

"OK… thank you…"

"Anne, _listen!_ If you get too tired you can always just drop into the water. Don't be scared to. You can bob back up and then continue to hold on to the piling one hand either side to help you float." He was desperate to give her some alternative to clinging on for dear life until she slipped and fell and was too disorientated and frightened to know what to do.

"OK…" she sounded forlorn and exhausted, and his heart lurched.

"Anne, can you tell me where you hired the boat?"

"A guy… in a caravan… just u…up from the water's edge." He could hear her breathing heavily. "Oh I think the battery's running out!"

"You'll be fine, Ford. You're tougher than you look."

There was a weak chuckle in reply.

"Anne, I – "

The phone died, and he lost her, but David was already in the car and reversing down the drive, leaving a scrambled voicemail for his father, and wondering what his last sentence to her should have been.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

I take my title from Robert Browning's epic poem _Pauline,_ one of his earliest works, written in homage to Shelley (that would be Percy Blythe, as opposed to Mary… it's obviously been a Shelley sort of week…)

*Ah, Candle Salad. It existed; I know not how, and definitely not why. If you dare to remind yourself, please see _elizasky's 'The Happiness We Must Win',_ Ch 24 'Muggins the Sky Terrier'.

** Walt Whitman from _'Oh Me! Oh Life!'_ in Book XX 'By the Roadside', _Leaves of Grass_ (1892)

*** Walt Whitman from Book III _'Song of Myself', Leaves of Grass_ (1892)

 _[Just a quick note here - obviously in the last Carl flashback (in 1984) there was only conjecture from Michael Meredith, in conversation with Rob, that Carl and Shirley were gay. We did not know Melissa's thoughts. This flashback now takes place five years later and it is clearly understood by all that the old uncles were a couple. There is another flashback to come happening in 1985 which will clear up any confusion.]_

**** _Anne of Green Gables_ (Ch 2)

***** _Somewhere in Time_ (1979) starring Christopher Reeve, Jane Seymour (and not forgetting Captain Von Trapp himself, Christopher Plummer), based itself on the novel _Bid Time Return_ (1975) by Richard Matheson. Time travel, eternal love, and Rachmaninov. And young Christopher Reeve. What more can you possibly ask for? Filmed mostly at the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island in Michigan, which sits on Lake Huron, which will be familiar to Canadians too... and _eliasky's_ readers.

****** _Anne of Green Gables_ (Ch 28)


	11. What can guard thee but thy naked love?

**Author's Note**

 _New Year's Resolutions:_

 _1\. Reply promptly to kind reviewers and kind pm's_

 _2\. Review the writing of others as immediately as possible_

 _3\. Go back over all those wonderful stories I have always meant to comment on_

4 _. Update all my own stories within the one moon cycle_

5 _. Do not start a new story until I have finished a current story_

6 _. Aim to have COMPLETE next to a current story before the end of NEXT year!_

7 _. Stop the need to apologise profusely before the start of every update_

8 _. Attempt to achieve any of the above_

 _I am obviously a work in progress, as much as my stories are. Thank you for your support this year!_

 _With love to all Anne-girls, readers and writers alike, and especially to my lovely own Patty's Place girls. You know who you are x_

 _HAPPY NEW YEAR!_

 _Love,_

 _MrsVonTrapp x_

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven**

' _ **But what can guard thee but thy naked love?'**_

* * *

David roared past the sign welcoming him to Avonlea, thinking his heart would explode with panic and fear, looking down at his phone and the map he had pulled up for a read on where this blasted lake was.

He chased the lake all along until he reached an old little caravan as ticket office, diving the car towards it and nearly skidding to a theatrical halt in a shower of gravel and desperation.

The kid at the window looked up as if he was an axe-wielding madman.

"Did a girl hire a boat off you?" David demanded breathlessly without any polite preliminaries. "A redhead girl?"

"Yeah… " the guy eyed him warily. "Um, about two, no… – hey, she's gone over time!"

"Where is the bridge?" David hissed.

"Huh?"

"The bridge! Which direction?"

The kid pointed back behind David's shoulder.

"I need a boat. Do you have a little speedboat, or anything with an engine?"

"Yeah… but it's the owners'. It's not for hire."

David threw a fistful of notes at him, his face and tone grim.

"It is now."

* * *

 _The minutes passed by, each seeming an hour…_ *

Of all the _stupid… insane… ridiculous…_

She felt her misery keenly, and supposed her other self had as well. She had seen a boat out on the water… _why_ hadn't she foreseen _this?_

There were no sounds barring the lapping of the current against her increasingly frozen form, and the insects making bothersome enquiries as to the possibility of her skin as meal. She felt she was all alone, poised on the edge of civilisation. _Why didn't somebody come? Suppose nobody ever came! Suppose she grew so tired and cramped that she could hold on no longer! Anne looked at the wicked green depths below her, wavering with long, oily shadows, and shivered. Her imagination began to suggest all manner of gruesome possibilities to her._ *

She could drop into the water. That's what he had said. Drop into the water like a pebble plopped over the side… would she sink like a stone to the bottom, too? Would she leave this earth as Ophelia had done? " _Her clothes spread wide; And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up … but long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull'd the poor wretch … To muddy death."_ **

 _Then, just as she thought she really could not endure the ache in her arms and wrists another moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing under the bridge…_ *

Anne blinked in confusion, sure she was hallucinating. A _row boat?_ _Gilbert?_

There was an impression, and then it was gone, as if sunlight dancing upon the water.

But there was a definite noise… a low buzzing, growing closer… until a man in a boat, another sort of boat, came into view, steering a motor with great speed, hazel eyes trained on her as he neared.

* * *

The soft knock on the door introduced a head of brown curls, giving way to roguish hazel eyes above a fine, straight nose and an irresistibly impish grin, followed by a rather splendid chin that rested on the doorframe, before perfect lips asked their teasing question.

"How's the mermaid?"

Anne sighed, coloring automatically. "I'm fine. I look like an idiot, but I'm fine."

"Actually, I'd have said more of a drowned rat," he offered, shoulder now replacing chin to lean laconically, as of those first days she had known him. "But you've had a fright today, so I won't argue."

Pale fingers worried the bedspread she perched upon in her room at the Green Gables Guest House; a pretty patchwork pattern of Island motifs, from apple trees and red roads to lighthouses and sandy shores overlooking the gulf. She swallowed the mortification that fuelled her in the wake of her rescue.

"And how angry is everyone with me? You can tell me, David."

His eyes faded in mirth, and his brows drew together as he stepped into the room and closed the door.

"No one's angry with you, Anne."

"But… the emergency services guy… and you… and your dad came too… and the boat…" she wavered, voice tremulous.

"For starters, trust me, those emergency services guys spend the entire summer fishing people out of the water or plucking them from cliff faces. The stupid kid at the boat hire and his boss let you take out a craft with a damned hole in it and they will be grateful my dad doesn't sue the pants off them. Your mom is just relieved you're OK, as are my dad and I, so don't worry, Anne. Please."

" _You're_ not angry? I dragged you away from your studies and halfway across the Island to – "

" _Listen_ to me, Anne!" he crossed over to the bed, eyes firing as they looked into hers. "I spent an hour of my life afraid you were drowning in some bloody lake in Avonlea. That kind of took the edge off any inconvenience on my part."

He stood above her, noting the suspicious welling in her eyes before expelling a long breath and slowly lowering himself to the edge of the bed.

"You know, _this_ room would fit into _my_ one twice over," he shook his head sorrowfully, attempting anything to lighten the grave, guilty look that had come over her.

 _That_ brought that little pointed chin up, he was pleased to note, almost on cue. "I like it! It's – "

" _Quaint_ and _charming?_ " he cocked an amused eyebrow.

"It's _atmospheric…_ and… _evocative_ … and…"

"… _claustrophobic_ ," he finished wryly.

"It _will_ be if I lock you in the wardrobe, Mr Blythe!" she huffed.

"I can think of worse things than being locked in _your_ wardrobe at night, Miss Ford," he sniggered softly, risking a darkening glance at her.

She flushed and rolled her eyes, and he noted her nervous fingers drift, adorably, to the quilt again.

"I… I never got to properly say… _thank you_ …" she stuttered, eyes again downcast, not wanting to think of the other long ago words of gratitude that had remained selfishly, stubbornly unsaid…

There was a long pause. _"Here this now… I will always come for you."_ ***

The quotation had the desired effect; the previous week they had spent an overcast afternoon back at Ingleside, going through Rob Blythe's shockingly extensive 1980's film collection and riffing on the remembered dialogue. Anne spluttered now, in surprise and delight, her visage immediately transformed.

" _But… how can you be sure?"_ *** she answered throatily, eyes lighting.

David's mouth seemed to have difficulty with the words. _"This is…"_ he stopped awkwardly, "well… _do you think this happens every day?"_ ***

She would have been disappointed in the omission, but for the flush that found his cheeks, and the quick way his manner had turned from blithe to bashful.

"What _is_ this, David, so you think?" she asked softly.

He stared at his hands. "I don't really know…" he gave a chastened grin. "I think I'm still trying to figure it out."

"So this is not…" Anne gulped, determined to follow through with the thought, "some, um, sort of _summer fling,_ or…?"

His head whipped towards her, instantly horrified. "Is _that_ really what you _think?"_

Anne recoiled at his flare, but persisted. "I wouldn't blame you… Really, I wouldn't! You are this college grad and med school candidate and I'm just some clueless high school girl who needs to be fished out of lakes and who goes home in a bit over a week!"

He turned to her fully, scowling at her with dark displeasure. " _Please_ tell me Anne that is _seriously_ not how you see yourself!"

"I don't know!" she leapt from the bed, arms hugging her middle, flinging away any pretence of composure. "I can't match it with all your college girls, let alone anyone you might meet at med school, and – obviously you'd find girls like that Gillian to be – "

" _Gillian?_ How did _she_ get into this conversation?"

"Gillian. That gorgeous girl on Facebook who always tags you."

"You mean _Gillian_ my _ex-girlfriend_ who continues to _taunt_ me?"

"You must still care for her, David! Or otherwise you'd – "

"Otherwise I'd _unfriend_ her? And let her think her little games had gotten to me?"

Anne gaped and then closed her mouth, having not quite considered it from that angle. "Oh."

David looked up at her sharply. "Did you think… I was spending time with _you…_ and still running some sort of thing with _her_?"

Anne colored fiercely.

"Wow. _Thanks,_ Anne."

She tried to formulate an answer for several moments. "Sorry." She turned away towards the window, a little shamed. "It's just that… me… and my mom… well, we're just not used to… well… _Blythes,_ I guess."

She heard his soft snort, but was too busy blinking back her tears.

"OK… he answered quietly. "So that explains _some_ things… but not really why you wouldn't think I was serious about _you_ , Anne."

She couldn't betray herself by letting him see her burning face.

"I think you… you… you've been sort of… holding back with me…"

"Sorry?"

"Well…" she blundered on, miserably, "you've never even _tried_ to… to… sleep with me and – "

" _What?"_

"I just thought… you mustn't have been as interested in me to… to not even _broach_ the subject or to…"

"Hey! Anne! Back up!" He reached for her hand to have her sit with him on the bed, holding it firmly and giving her a very assessing look, tilting his head to the side. "You think I haven't wanted to sleep with you because… I haven't wanted to sleep with you?" he couldn't help his slow grin.

"I'm glad you think this is funny!"

He surveyed her for a long moment, his voice lowering, and his tone turning gentle. "Anne… you're wonderfully gorgeous. Frighteningly intelligent. Achingly sweet. Of _course_ I want to sleep with you. That isn't the issue _._ "

"It isn't?" her face reddened magnificently at his praise, and the admission.

"No."

"Then… what _is?_ "

He let out a long sigh, his brown thumb tracing a slow pattern over the flesh of her hand. "Anne, you're _seventeen_."

"Excellent observation, doctor."

His mouth quirked, but his hazel eyes were grave.

"Anne, I'm nearly _twenty-one._ "

"Again, David, these are very obvious points."

"We've had… a very… _intense_ time together – wonderfully intense – but – "

"Now you're sounding like my mother!" she rolled her eyes, and then turned to him sharply. "Or like… your _father._ " Her grey eyes narrowed at the thought.

He followed the thread of her accusation, suddenly scowling and extracting himself, stomping over to the window to stare moodily at the landscape blanketed by the blaze of the setting sun. He leaned a long hand up against the window sill, sighing again, before turning and perching awkwardly upon it, shoving his hands in pockets dejectedly.

"Anne, I could be _anywhere_ these next few years. I'll probably work a year and then be off to whichever med school may have accepted me – if any of them _do."_

"David – I know that! We've talked about that already…"

"Yes, I know. Anne, this has been a beautiful, enchanted sort of summer. Just magical in every way and… I don't want to ruin the magic by doing something we both might regret."

Her lungs began to pain in an attempted tight breath. "Who says we would?"

"No one… It's just that… it might be easier, for us, to wait… or to just consider whether… well… what if you meet someone, this coming year? Someone locally, in Toronto? Someone you can hang with every day, and go to prom with, and want to… _do_ things with and you get to wishing you hadn't… done them first with me…?"

"David, I think you are _seriously_ overestimating the guys in my acquaintance back home, and as for… what do you _mean,_ ' _do them first'_ with you?"

"I think you _know_ what I mean by that, Anne," his voice was low, his expression suddenly shuttered.

Her eyes flew wide, and there was a horrifying heavy-breathing silence whilst she processed this.

"You don't mean to suggest that you think I'm… I'm…" she spluttered, furiously aghast. "Because that is such an _insulting_ thing to presume! I know plenty of girls back home who are seventeen and not… and not…"

"Anne, of course…" his reply was wary, trying to tread carefully. "It's just that you don't strike me as someone to approach that sort of thing… _casually_."

"Are you worried I'll turn into some sort of stalker girl, harassing you on all your hot dates with all your college girls?"

" _No,_ Anne!"

"Is this about what happened _today?_ With the boat? You think I'm not _mature_ enough for you?"

"Anne, please don't get upset…"

"Who's _upset?_ You've just called me too young, too immature, too inexperienced and too much like hard work to continue something with whilst you're off playing hot shot med student somewhere across the country!"

"For God's sake, Anne! I knew this was a bad idea to try to broach this now! I'll leave you until you've _calmed down."_

"Oh, great! I'm _hysterical_ now as well!"

"Yep, way to prove _that_ point!"

"Well, thanks for stopping by, David! I won't keep you!"

"I was _so_ leaving anyway, Anne, but yeah, thanks for the chat. _Later,_ then!"

He gave an imperious shake of the head that really made her want to hit him over it with something – her fingers fairly itched with the trace memory of such an object in her hand; a square or a rectangle, thick and heavy and substantial.

And then he was gone.

* * *

She heard her mother and Rob come in an hour or so later, after a walk post-dinner taking in the picturesque surrounds, and feigned sleep when her mom came up to check on her. She'd had long practice at lying still and breathing evenly in bed as a girl, or remaining unobtrusive as she huddled on the stairs, clutching the bannisters with white knuckles as she listened to her parents fight, with hiss and gasp and smothered cry, which was always so much more terrifying than shouting and slamming doors.

This time there wasn't her father's angry excuses or her mother's tearful pleading, but otherwise the script was the same; her mom creeping up to her room, to stare at her with what Anne could only imagine was a forlorn weariness, leaning to stroke her hair and gift a kiss to her forehead, her scent and her sadness lingering in her room long after she had gone.

Though she had someone to return to downstairs now… and the sadness that had once followed her had drifted away like the tide called towards the gulf back at the Glen, the moment her mother had met Rob Blythe. Rob had already farewelled his son for the night, with David's room along the end of the hall to hers, and another one besides, with two downstairs. Anne had listened to their exchange of soft male rumbles with her heart in her throat, able to distinguish David's cadence even at a distance, desperate at the thought her affronted temper and broken pride had chased him away. There was an especially big room on the ground floor with a four-poster bed that her mother had taken one look at and had loved on sight, and Anne saw them both now, her mom and Rob, watching with a fascinated, red-cheeked wonder from her hidden vantage point on the stairs as they lingered by the bedroom door, holding hands and whispering in a manner both lightly joking and incredibly intimate. There seemed to be some debate over where Rob would retire for the evening; he gestured with high drama to his own room and even up the stairs, murmuring something that had her mother in fits of giggles, even as she nodded sagely in a flirtatious manner that had only rebirthed itself since their arrival in the Glen. And then she leaned in and up to kiss Rob with a lingering passion that trapped the breath in Anne's chest, and Rob wrapped strong, Blythe arms around her, and their kiss continued through the door until it closed behind them, and Anne was left staring in wide-eyed amazement.

She sat in her undiscovered hideaway, shaking, unsure if she felt grief for her father or guilt for herself or even gratitude that, of all the many someones who could have happened across her mother in that bar, it had been someone like Rob Blythe.

And of all the many someones who could have encountered _her_ under a tree in the improbably named Rainbow Valley, that it had been David.

And really, that it had _always_ been David, in whatever incarnation.

She blinked back her miserable tears.

And then she swallowed and rose carefully, pulling her hair free of its clasp, puttering along the hall to knock on a door.

* * *

Later, he would wonder whether it had all been a fantasy; a fever-dream. David isn't sure if he hears a knock or if it is just wish fulfilment, but he opens the door regardless, to see a white-faced waif with flaming hair and red-rimmed, shadowed grey eyes.

"David… I'm sorry…" Anne gasps, tears spilling over flushing cheeks. "I'm sorry!"

He blinks slowly. _God, she's beautiful._ The surprise sentiment echoes in his head, reverberating like a stone thrown into a chasm. They are words that shouldn't be in his head, or anywhere near this moment, for she needs comfort, not seduction, but it comes, unbidden, as has she.

"Anne…" his voice, husky and disembodied, hangs suspended in the air. "Anne... honestly. It's OK."

"Can I… come in?" she pleads, though the thought of her asking for admittance is laughable; he is already grasping her hand and pulling her inside the room, closing the door behind them with a nod to privacy rather than passion. And then his eyes bulge to see her slide the little lock across and pull the catch in the door knob as well.

"Anne…" he has already heard the automatic protest in his voice, though his body registers no such resistance the moment her slim arms find themselves around his neck, as they had today when he had fished her out of the lake, scared and soaked and shivering.

Her hot tears dampen his t shirt, and she clings to him now as of then, and his arms snake around her and hold her as close as he dares, wishing for very, very many layers between them and not some floaty dress of hers and t-shirt and cargo shorts for him and altogether still much too much flesh.

"Anne…" he sighs into her hair, maddeningly fragrant, as of lilies again now and not, as before, of the pond they might be found in. He wishes he could offer more except this feeble repeated bleating of her name.

"I just… wanted you to know that," she draws away from him, sniffing, searching his face. "That I'm sorry. I was stupid and embarrassed and I never said sorry enough times… _before_."

"You have _absolutely_ nothing to be sorry for, Anne!" he reaches a large hand to her cheek, cradling it and her tears. " _I'm_ the one who was stupid! Confusing you and having you think I don't care and… well… everything else. I never wanted to do that… I just wanted to… I guess… protect you, is all… And I know that was unfair too, and condescending and…"

" _Protect_ me?" she asks, her surprise quirking her lips. "From _what?_ "

"From _whom_ ," he feels the frown on his face. "From… _me._ "

He might have expected her to back away at that - it would be better all round if she backed away from that - but he is well used to underestimating her, and this particular moment is no exception.

"I'm not… _afraid_ of this, David. Even though you… well, you weren't _wrong_. About me." She views him steadily, fighting her blush in the low light of the lamp, which washes an otherwordly golden glow over her; _and Juliet is the sun._ ****

His throat muscles are squeezing his larynx, making the confession a rasp. "And you weren't wrong… about _me,_ either. I… I _have_ been holding back – "

"Why?"

The warm, knowing chuckle escapes him. "Oh, Anne, if you don't know why, then we really shouldn't be having this conversation."

She gives into her blush and her newly-knowing smile.

" _The mystic deliria, the madness amorous…"_ ***** she quotes softly, all eyes and lips and translucent skin.

"I didn't know you had been sneaking Whitman at Ingleside when I wasn't looking, Anne," he can't help his surprised, delighted grin.

"I didn't have to," her own response is too pleased with itself; the self-satisfied smirk he fondly remembers all the way back to a meeting under a tree in Rainbow Valley. "It's _downloadable._ "

He arches a dark brow. "I _know."_ His breath hitches, slightly, as her slim white hands slide down his neck and find his chest, tracing a path with fingers and then nails, her actions as newly audacious as her words. "That Whitman is pretty salacious stuff," he remarks; whether for her or for himself he's not entirely sure.

She smiles almost serenely, and he wonders how much of it she has actually read. All he remembers himself, in that tiny part of his brain not crammed to capacity with MCAT revision, are a few choice words or phrases. Whitman wrote of the _Children of Adam,_ but she is most definitely a daughter of Eve; all glow and glimmer, sparkle and sheen, impish faerie turning temptress before his startled eyes.

"… _the utter abandonment…"_ she completes the quote to the accompaniment of fingers playing upon his t shirt, tracing the taut abdominals beneath. _God damn it._ How is he meant to remember any codes of chivalry… his Dad's old, outmoded _three button rule,_ ****** when there are no buttons to start with?

"… _the hungry gnaw that eats me night and day…"_ he adds hoarsely, entering the fray, just to test her response. It is a line that has stayed with him, in the lonely hours between saying goodbye to her of an evening and seeing her again the next day. Her reaction to this is almost more than he can handle. Her pink lips part and her eyes flare green, as if someone has flipped a switch to illuminate them from within, and she presses herself against him, mouth reaching up towards his.

"Anne…" he groans, his hands on her forearms, unsure if he is attempting to deter or encourage. This is a dangerous game already and becoming more so. "I don't think we should be doing this…"

Her throat works hard for the words. "You don't want to do this?"

He swallows noisily. "That's not what I said."

"What if…" she gulps, "you weren't holding back?"

He swallows again but can't find an appropriate reply.

"Will you kiss me, David, just once… and not hold back? Just so… I know what I'm missing."

The request is really an extended breath, and he draws his own in, sharply. _Oh, no… this is bad… this is a very, very bad idea, right up there with the very best of bad ideas…_

But the Blythe control in him, the one kept on a very tight rein with her, and the control that inevitably his father is downstairs abandoning right at this very moment, slackens, as if a soldier to attention relaxing his posture. He draws out his own breath, long and slow and laborious.

" _Please,"_ Anne whispers, and he knows he has lost. _Is_ lost. Or rather, that she has won.

" _O let me be lost if it must be so!"_ he breathes the words over and into her mouth.

He presses her into the door; she is pliant already, bending herself to his body and his will. Her hands find his shoulders and grip them with a clawing desperation, but he can only concentrate on plundering her mouth, plunging tongue deeply, drawing himself into her. He knows he can't… won't… shouldn't… give anything but this kiss, and so he will give everything to her in it… and then he feels her breasts pushed against him and then he has thought of her breasts and can think of nothing _but_ her breasts and his hand which _shouldn't mustn't can't_ does indeed realise it _can…_ his broad brown Blythe hand drops from the door, migrating slowly, journeying from her slight shoulder, across collarbone and down to breast, his palm brushing the soft peak with a delicacy that still makes her gasp sharply inside his kiss.

He wrenches his mouth away. "Sorry, Anne!" he bites out.

"Don't stop!" she breathes raggedly.

He looks down to her feverish face, made beautiful to him so many times, but perhaps never quite so much as _this_ time, and there is something so mesmerically familiar about the pulse he can almost see at her throat, and he presses his lips to this instead, to the carotid artery beneath her jaw that quakes at his touch.

There is a sound she makes that is trapped between a moan and a sigh; a catch to her throat that connects immediately to his own pulse points, all eight of them, one in particular…

She leans her body into his hand which cups her, covers her, thumb breaking away to trace its own lazy circle, which in turn grows more insistent, meeting and encouraging her quick breaths. He draws his hand away to travel down and grip her waist, thinking he might try to slow things now, whilst he still has any coherent thought in his head, let alone any will to follow it.

And that's when Anne's hands move from shoulders to neck to ever upwards… into his hair, and her shaky request sounds loudly in the night stillness.

"Do you think… we might be more comfortable… on the bed?"

Her words have the tone of the old Anne who has teased and tempted, and the light lilt of this intoxicating new Anne, whom he didn't quite know lived within her.

"We _would_ be…" he agrees. _Should_ be _can_ be _…_ "But… Anne…"

"You don't think I'd survive any more _no holding back_?"

"I'm not sure…" he acknowledges wryly, and perhaps not quite steadily. "All I know is that _I_ wouldn't."

Her smile is perhaps the loveliest thing he has ever seen in his life; not a girl's smile, now, but a woman awakening.

He uses the pause to reach up for one of her hands, pulling it from the tangle of his curls to kiss the palm, lacing his fingers through hers and leading her over to the bed. They sit demurely, the air heavy between them, his thoughts running as rampart as his heartbeat, and his thumb brushes another pulse beat, at her wrist, and he feels her heart skittering forward as he lunges to catch it.

One day… _one_ day… he vows to find each and every one of her pulse beats, and treasure them in turn.

"This is _not_ a summer fling…" he growls, low. "I want this to be the _beginning_ of something, Anne… not an ending. I don't want to sleep with you as some sort of goodbye, because you're leaving soon. I don't want to start something with you that I couldn't finish."

She is all eyes at this, gripping his hand tightly.

"And I've got the MCAT in three days…" he sighs. "If I have you in my head… there will be no room for anything else. But _after…_ there is a whole lot of _after_ for us, Anne. I don't want us to rush through the _now._ "

There is a glimmer of brightness to those grey-green eyes, and her smile is tremulous.

"There is… an _after_ for us?"

"Absolutely."

"And… all those college girls?"

He steadies himself, now, so that he might give her an answer that is likewise.

"Well… there's only one future college girl I'm interested in."

She pauses to ponder this, before flinging her arms around him again, but there are no tears now; just a grinning joy in her that he catches and gives back to her in his kiss.

"Are you… _absolutely_ sure… you wouldn't survive any more attempts to _not_ _hold back_?" her teeth gnaw her bottom lip. "Even just a little?"

His chuckle is throaty and amused, and he catches her palm to kiss it again, but thinks better of it, and lays his palm the length of hers; brown on palest white.

" _And palm to palm…"_ he begins, reverently.

"… _is holy palmers' kiss,"_ ******* she finishes, blushing magnificently.

His actual kiss is again at her jaw, and all he can think is all the times in this coming year he won't be just down the hallway in the next room, but far away, wishing for this moment again and again, when he did not hold back and gave her the choice not to.

He does not have buttons, but _she_ does… three buttons, ironically, where the bodice of her dress – another floaty, romantic whisper of cotton and girlhood – would give way to the flawless flesh beneath.

" _O trespass sweetly urged…"_ ******* he hears her invite, breathlessly, though all he knows is the emerald awe of her eyes, and all he feels is his own pulse now, pounding.

There are three buttons, and then there is soft, luminous skin, and then there is nothing but the bed beneath them, and the fact of him only held together by an old promise and fast-fraying chivalry, and the new wonder of the long, long hours till morning.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

The chapter title is again from Robert Browning's epic poem _Pauline._ There will be many references from this beautiful work in the future!

* _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 28) of course!

**William Shakespeare _Hamlet_ (Act 4 Sc 7)

*** _The Princess Bride_? I hear you howl. _Again?_ I know, I know. But it is a through-line that I want for these two characters and I wrote all my Westley-Buttercup related riffs ages ago, both here and in _The Land of Heart's Desire,_ when this was also written (it's been sitting around for a long time!) Please bear with me. There will be a mutton-lettuce-tomato sandwich for you at the end of it, I promise x

And if I needed any excuse, the recent passing of William Goldman is excuse enough. Thank you, Sir, for giving us Westley and Buttercup and _As You Wish_ and Rodents of Unusual Size. And kissing.

****William Shakespeare _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 2 Sc 2)

*****Walt Whitman, _'From_ _Pent-Up Aching Rivers'_ in Book IV Children of Adam, _Leaves of Grass_ (1892) which is what Anne and David quote from throughout this scene.

Some readers with memories like elephants may remember this is the poem that Anne started to read back in Ingleside before interrupted by David, and the discovery of a certain letter.

****** _elizasky's_ Third Button Rule. See previous chapter. And all over this site!

*******William Shakespeare _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 1 Sc 5)


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